


Primary Target

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Civil War, Steve had always planned to go search out the Winter Soldier. He'd never expected to find him right there at the Smithsonian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stephrc79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephrc79/gifts), [maidoforleans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maidoforleans/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Основная цель](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480899) by [WTFStarbucks2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTFStarbucks2017/pseuds/WTFStarbucks2017)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Основная цель](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439772) by [Christoph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christoph/pseuds/Christoph)



> This is actually the first Steve/Bucky story I started writing, about a million years ago, even though it's far from the first I've posted. And talk about a group effort! My betas and cheerleaders are, in alphabetical order: mommybird, rayvanfox, scriptrixlatinae, stephrc79, thesecretbeta, writehopper, and zephyrfox. Thank you, guys! And the credit for the title goes entirely to mommybird!
> 
> Maidoforleans, it's not quite the "learning about technology" story that I'd set out to write, but you know how characters get when they have a story they want to tell!

The problem, Steve thought, wasn’t that he didn’t understand the modern world. The problem was that the modern world didn’t understand him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Some of the people here _did_ understand him. Those were the ones who were afraid of him. Afraid of his strength. Of his knowledge or lack of knowledge. Of his past.

But for the most part, people expected him to be _this:_ Captain America. Not Steve Rogers. And while he wouldn’t run from his responsibility, on days like today, after the blood stopped flowing and the scars disappeared, he was nothing more than Steve Rogers, the skinny kid from Brooklyn, ninety-five years old and feeling every day of it. Weary. Disconnected from this modern world.

And now, on top of that, he was haunted by a ghost. A breathing, walking, fighting ghost, living behind a stranger’s mask.

For the third time in as many weeks, Steve slipped quietly into the Smithsonian, anonymous behind tinted glasses and a plain blue ball cap. Over one shoulder, he had a cheap, new rucksack with plastic zippers. It had gone through the metal detector without a problem, just like Natasha had said it would. Inside, was the old suit that he’d borrowed — _stolen,_ his guilty conscience accused. Maybe he’d had a reason, and maybe he’d always intended to return it, but it had been a theft, and he just knew someone had gotten in trouble over it.

He’d return it, though, along with a note that would hopefully get any security guards out of trouble. After all, they really couldn’t be expected to keep out someone like Natasha, could they?

She’d been a big help for all of this — not just the thing with S.H.I.E.L.D., but the thing with the uniform. Maybe it had been stupid, insisting on wearing the old colors, but... well, it was like Agent Coulson said: _People might just need a little ‘old fashioned’_.

And Steve... This time, Steve had gotten more than he bargained for. ‘Old fashioned’? Old nightmares, more like. Because the past didn’t stay dead and buried at all, and what came back was so much more painful.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he fell into line and inched towards the displays. _His_ displays. His skin crawled as he looked at his past laid out for the tourists and gawkers. After all this time, he should’ve been used to having no privacy, but somehow this impersonal display — photographs and backlit biography pages and dioramas and models — felt even more garish than the stage shows he’d done.

When he and Natasha had come up with the plan to borrow — _steal_ — the old uniform, he’d insisted upon giving it back to the Smithsonian. Natasha had favored another B &E, but Steve had thought he could just sneak it back in when no one was looking. More fool, him. He was almost at the costume display, where his mannequin had been replaced by a sign that read _Removed for restoration_ , and the crowd was still pressing in on him from all sides. Nothing short of a fire alarm would thin them out, and he wouldn’t pull a fire alarm for something like this. Someone could get hurt or trampled.

He’d have to turn the suit in somewhere else. An office, maybe. Or he could give it to a security guard, but then there would be questions. He might even be arrested. And the technical ‘ownership’ of the suit was in question. Was it his, the government’s, or the museum’s?

There was no chance of getting behind the display to leave the uniform neatly folded by the mannequins, so he didn’t even try. Though he’d never admit it, he was glad his mannequin was gone. It was the creepiest thing in the whole display — _him,_ lifeless and immobile, rendered in dingy white plastic. He didn’t know if it was worse with or without the mask.

He turned away, looking for a security guard, but his gaze landed instead on Bucky’s wall.

 _Bucky,_ he thought, closing his eyes for a moment. Bucky was alive, but he wasn’t _Bucky_. But he also _was_ , somewhere inside. Steve knew it. He had to _believe_ it. He rubbed a hand on his jaw, remembering two fractures, three loose teeth, and an eye too swollen to properly open. It had hurt, but every ounce of pain had been worth it, because right there, at the end, _Bucky_ had looked at him through the Winter Soldier’s eyes.

And then, of course, the helicarrier had turned to hellfire, and the next thing Steve knew, he was spitting up oily, polluted river water and blood. But he hadn’t drowned.

 _He hadn’t drowned._ And he had no illusions that a civilian had pulled him out.

He spotted a security guard standing by an emergency exit. Relieved, he dropped the rucksack off his shoulder and started to unzip it. Maybe the guard would be so surprised that he wouldn’t ask any awkward questions about the suit’s theft. Or about why the boots still smelled like the Potomac. Or the new rips and bloodstains.

Wary of his strength, he made his way through the crowd, looking down so he didn’t inadvertently tread on some kid. Looking down was dangerous, though. Adults were likely to look at him and think, _Hey, that guy looks like Cap._ Kids, though... Kids would _believe_ he was the real deal. And when happy, kids tended to scream and shout and clap, which was exactly the attention he didn’t want.

So he kept his head down and avoided stepping on any kids as he walked towards the security guard. He had to sidestep around a tourist standing like a statue in the middle of the shifting crowd, a statue in a ball cap just like Steve’s and a leather jacket so new, it practically creaked. Long hair, flattened under the cap, hung down over the guy’s neck. Some strands were caught up in a ragged beard that was just growing in.

Steve looked away long enough to take one more step before his mind processed the sight. Jerked abruptly out of his memories, he turned on his heel.

Blue eyes, sunken in shadow, pinned him in place. For one heartbeat, _Bucky_ looked out at him. But that wasn’t possible! Not here. Not in Washington DC, in the Smithsonian.

Then those eyes went icy cold and blank, like a robot’s. Bucky turned away, made it three steps before someone got in his path. He jerked both hands out of his pockets, then shoved his metal hand back. With his right hand, he pushed a woman aside — pushed so hard that her feet came up off the ground, and she hit Gabe Jones’ display hard enough to rock the glass and make the backlighting flicker.

When she shouted in surprise or pain, Steve saw Bucky flinch.

Panic must have hit. Bucky broke into a run, pushing people out of his way, stubbornly keeping his left hand hidden in his jacket pocket. Steve threw his rucksack down — someone would find it — and gave chase, refusing to give in to the urge to stop and make sure everyone was okay. Someone else would take care of them, but nobody would be able to take care of Bucky. Nobody but Steve.

By the time they hit the arcade that stretched the length of the building, they were both jogging, building up to that impossible speed that would strip away the illusion of their humanity. Forgetting all about discretion, Steve didn’t hesitate.

He _ran_.

Cornering abruptly, Bucky slammed into a space capsule. It broke free of the display plinth supporting it at an angle. Steve nearly stopped, but the damage was already done, and Bucky ran _through_ the closed front doors without hesitating.

Glass shattered, raining down in thick, jagged shards. Steve threw up an arm out of habit and ran faster, hearing shouts of, “That’s him! That’s Captain America!”

More people screamed — some in excitement, some in fear — but Steve left them behind as he broke free into the sunlit afternoon.

Bucky charged across the street, leaping up and onto and over cars, leaving a wake of squealing brakes and crashing metal. Steve threw everything he had into his run, clearing an SUV in a running jump that ended with him landing on the trunk of a little fiberglass car that crumpled under him like paper.

“Sorry!” he shouted automatically as he freed his foot from the fiberglass. Bucky was in the trees, kicking up dirt and grass as he rushed through the National Mall, heading towards the Potomac.

He couldn’t let Bucky make the river. Once he disappeared in the murk, Steve would lose him.

“Bucky! Stop!”

Bucky threw back a glance full of terror, whites showing all around his pale blue eyes, and Steve told himself to see hope in that fear, because that was _Bucky_ , not the assassin, the Winter Soldier that HYDRA had forced Bucky to become.

Steve put on an extra burst of speed, one that left even him winded, heart racing, and threw himself at Bucky, tackling him to the ground. Bucky slammed both hands into the dirt and twisted powerful shoulders, trying to throw Steve off, but Steve hung on for dear life.

“Bucky! Bucky, it’s all right! Stop!”

Bucky went still, head turned to the side, body heaving as he sucked in air. Then, with a shudder that nearly threw Steve off, he let his hands fall flat. His metal fingers dug holes in the earth. He twisted a bit more, and one eye, still wide with fear, fixed on Steve’s face.

“Bucky? Stay with me, pal,” Steve said, struggling to keep his voice steady and calm.

Bucky’s dark brows drew down. His lips parted, and he spat out grass and dirt. Then he hissed — _ssss_ — and it turned into a word too faint for even Steve to hear, though he could see the shape of it in the curve of Bucky’s mouth.

 _Steve_.

Relief brought tears to Steve’s eyes. “Yeah, Bucky. Steve,” he said encouragingly. With slow, careful movements, he inched to the side, moving off Bucky’s body. “It’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

Another hiss, but this time it turned into a barely-there whisper: _“Steve.”_

Steve rolled onto the grass beside Bucky, aware that a crowd was gathering, though he didn’t care. “Bucky,” he said, reaching out to put a hand on Bucky’s arm, only to freeze when he realized he’d be touching metal under that leather jacket. Instead, needing to give Bucky a more human contact, he put his hand on the small of Bucky’s back.

“Steve.”

Was he repeating the name by rote or because he really did recognize Steve?

There was no way to tell, and this was no place to find out. Steve was no shrink, but he guessed that the crowd — and the cops that were probably already on their way — would make the situation worse, not better.

“Bucky, we’ve got to go,” he said, pushing up onto all fours, then kneeling upright. He never broke eye contact. Never moved too quickly or threateningly.

After a moment, Bucky coiled in on himself, drawing one leg under his body to brace against the dirt. Steve stood and put out a hand. Bucky rose like a cat, fluid and graceful and deadly, and reached out with his left hand.

Sunlight glinted on the surface, catching metal under the dirt and torn grass. Bucky’s eyes snapped to that flash, and his expression went flat and neutral, like a mask — a robot in a Bucky mask.

“Bucky. Come on, pal. Stay with me,” Steve pleaded, twitching his hand insistently.

With visible effort, Bucky wrenched his gaze off his own hand to look at Steve’s instead. He huffed out a breath, snatched out with his right hand, and clasped his fingers around Steve’s forearm. His grip tightened, and he hung on as if clutching a lifeline.

“Steve.”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. People were coming. People with those smartphones that took pictures and movies. “Bucky —”

He looked up at Steve, and one corner of his mouth twitched as if to hint at a smile. “I thought you were smaller.”

The words stripped away three-quarters of a century. Steve laughed, relief bubbling up inside him. “Yeah. Yeah, I was. Are you all right?”

Bucky’s expression eased. It wasn’t quite a smile, but the frown disappeared. He shot a look at the crowd, and his expression went blank. “Run,” he said in the Winter Soldier’s dead, mission-focused voice.

They did.

 

~~~

 

The Arlington Memorial Bridge spanned the Potomac River from the National Mall, near the Lincoln Monument, to Columbia Island, just outside Arlington National Cemetery. The bridge was another popular destination for tourists as well as local bikers and joggers, and they were out in force today.

At the bridge, Steve let go of Bucky’s sleeve and slowed to a walk, trying to act casual. Bucky ran one more step before he stopped and matched Steve’s pace. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and ducked his head as if to hide his identity. With his long, unkempt hair hanging over his bearded face and the tense set of his shoulders, he looked more like a criminal than a tourist out for a walk. Steve could just imagine what Natasha would say.

Steve wanted to talk, but Bucky seemed to have a single-minded focus on walking, as if it took all of his concentration. Tense as he was, he walked like a cat, with silent steps and subtle twists of his body that kept him from brushing against the others on the bridge. The Bucky of Steve’s memory used to walk proudly, drawing as much attention as he could. Steve thought back to their disastrous double date at the World Expo. He’d always suspected Bucky had taken _both_ their dates home that night — a thought that brought up unaccountable jealousy for more reasons than Steve wanted to decipher.

They crossed the bridge in silence. At the foot of the bridge, the sidewalk gently curved around to the right, but a dirt trail wound up into the grass. Before Steve could point out the trail, Bucky had already started that way.

Steve had jogged this route before: across Washington Blvd., across the George Washington Memorial Parkway, and over to the Mt. Vernon Trail. Now, he walked it with Bucky, though he stopped at a thick grove of trees before the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge. After a quick look up and down the trail to make sure they were alone, Steve ducked into the trees and headed for the water’s edge, where they could have some privacy. Still wrapped in eerie silence, Bucky followed.

The shadows were deep and cool. The river air was thick with the wetland smell of decaying vegetation and silt mixed with car exhaust from the nearby roads. Over the sound of the nearby light traffic, Steve could hear the soft splash of oars from a couple of kayakers off in the distance.

Hoping to make it clear that he wasn’t here to fight, he sat down at the base of a tree. “Have a seat,” he invited, looking up at Bucky, though there wasn’t much to see. The shadows softened the unhealthy pallor of his skin, though his sharp blue eyes were lost to darkness.

Only after turning in a full circle, as though reassuring himself that they were alone, did Bucky crouch down on his toes, facing Steve. He rested his forearms on his knees, fingers curled loosely. He looked coiled, ready to strike without warning.

Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Steve watched Bucky in silence that went from awkward to tense, because he didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t remember.” Bucky’s voice was rougher than it should have been, which was all wrong — almost worse than his silence. The ‘Bucky’ who lived in Steve’s memory was full of life and energy.

Hiding a shiver, Steve said, “Yeah. I figured.”

“But I _know you_.”

Hope spiked through Steve like a hot spear of sunlight breaking through the trees. “Yeah, Bucky. Of course, you do. We grew up together. Remember Brooklyn?”

Bucky’s fingers twitched, almost curling into fists before relaxing again. “I don’t remember anything. Only the cold. Only HYDRA.”

“No.” Steve sat forward so he could put a hand on Bucky’s arm — his living right arm. “No, Bucky. You’re James Buchanan Barnes. You were a Sergeant in the 107th. We fought together, side-by-side. The Howling Commandos, remember? You and me. Gabe, Jim Morita. Dum Dum and Dernier used to fight over the Germans taking Paris.”

“He had a hat.” Bucky frowned and tipped his head to get his hair out of his eyes. “Dum Dum’s hat...”

Steve’s laugh came out broken. “Yeah. A bowler hat. He’d never wear a helmet. He loved that hat.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “I know. I know, but... I don’t _remember_ it.”

“That’s okay. It’ll come back,” Steve said, hoping like hell that it wasn’t a lie.

Bucky looked down, hair falling over his face once more. “I’m supposed to kill you.”

“I know.”

“I want to.” Bucky looked up just enough for Steve to see the dark shadows around his eyes. “And I don’t.”

Steve let out a laugh. “If I get a vote, I say stick with ‘don’t’. Okay, pal?”

That got him another faint maybe-smile. “I want you to help me remember.”

“Of course, I’ll help.” Steve shifted closer and ducked down, trying to meet Bucky’s eyes. “Bucky. Bucky, look at me.”

Bucky’s head tilted up just a fraction of an inch. “Help me remember.”

Steve lifted his hand and touched Bucky’s hair. Bucky jerked his head back like a startled horse. “Hey, it’s okay,” Steve said, holding up his hand. “I just want to see you. That’s all.”

Bucky’s exhale was stuttered. He went still, and Steve tentatively pushed back the long strands of hair. It was greasy and dirty, but somehow it helped Steve understand this was real. That Bucky was really here and alive. That they weren’t killing each other.

Bucky’s eyes closed, and he went even more still, barely breathing. Carefully, Steve pushed Bucky’s hair back behind his ears, first on one side, then on the other.

“We’ve got to get you cleaned up,” Steve said, still touching Bucky’s hair. It seemed to soothe him — something Steve understood. He’d spent three-quarters of a century on ice. He shouldn’t have remembered time passing, but somewhere deep inside, he knew. When he’d come out, he’d spent hours just touching everything, feeling the texture of the grass or carpet or tiles under his feet, running his hands over his own clothes, twitching his fingers back and forth over towels and sofa pillows and his blankets at night.

Nobody had touched him. He wasn’t a _person_. He was Captain America. The good guy. The hero. Oh, everyone wanted to shake his hand and clap him on the shoulder, but no one had _touched_ him. Natasha teased him about girlfriends, but nobody wanted to _date_ him. They wanted Captain America, too. And nobody wanted anything to do with Steve Rogers. Who would? He was boring. The only people who’d ever cared — Peggy and Bucky — no longer recognized him.

The decades had stolen Peggy. Steve was _not_ going to surrender Bucky, too. Not to death, not to time, and certainly not to HYDRA.

“Come on, Bucky,” he finally said, running his hand over Bucky’s ratty beard to touch his chin.

Bucky’s eyes opened, and there it was — a glint of blue, hiding deep in the shadows. “Where?”

Steve shook his head. Since the battle, Steve had been in the wind. He’d spent the last two nights at two different cheap hotels, living off his dwindling supply of cash. He and Sam and Natasha had ‘burner’ phones, which were just like their old phones, only with different buttons. Supposedly, they were untraceable, but he didn’t feel comfortable using them unless necessary.

“I’ve got a hotel room. Tomorrow...” He got to his feet reluctantly and held out his hand.

Bucky took it and let Steve help him up. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, we’re heading to New York.” Steve took a deep breath. “There’s someone there we can trust. Someone who can help us disappear for a while.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “New York?”

“Manhattan. It’s near Brooklyn —”

“I know.” Bucky shook his head and looked down. Realizing they were still holding hands, Steve let go. Bucky’s fingers twitched. “Who’s in New York?”

“Tony. Tony Stark. He’s a —”

“Howard Stark,” Bucky cut in. “Married to Maria Stark. Both dead.”

Baffled, Steve nodded. “Yeah. Howard was one of the scientists who...” He gestured at his own chest. “Tony’s their kid. He’s... Well, he’s kind of a jerk, but he’s okay.”

After a few seconds, Bucky’s frown eased. “Tony. He was Iron Man.”

“He _is_ ,” Steve said with a wry smile, remembering wanting to drag Stark out to the helicarrier’s cargo hold to go a few rounds, maybe teach him some humility.

“He _was_ ,” Bucky insisted. “He was downgraded to a low priority threat when he had the arc reactor removed and destroyed his battle suits.”

“How do...” Steve faltered, shaking his head.

Bucky gave Steve a helpless look as he continued, “Pepper Potts, CEO Stark Industries, was upgraded to a top priority threat due to Extremis serum. Currently under protection of Deputy Director Maria Hill, S.H.I.E.L.D. clearance level nine.”

“Bucky... How do you know all that?” Steve asked in disbelief.

Bucky’s eyes closed. His brows drew together, and he shook his head, a nervous little twitch of motion that pulled the curtain of his hair back over his face. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Steve, I don’t know.”

Steve caught Bucky’s shoulders, feeling the strength of muscles and metal under Bucky’s leather jacket. For one second, he _hated_ it, knowing that Bucky owed his life to HYDRA and that HYDRA had turned Bucky into a monster.

Then Bucky took hold of Steve’s forearms, leaning into his strength, and Steve reminded himself that at least Bucky _was_ alive. Steve had a second chance. He’d lost Peggy, but he wouldn’t lose Bucky.

“It’ll be okay,” Steve said, looking into Bucky’s eyes and hoping — praying — that Bucky would see the truth of his words. “I promise. I’ll find a way to make it okay.”

 

~~~

 

“The motorcycle’s safe,” Steve said as he and Bucky walked through the expansive parking lot behind the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. They were both looking around warily, but Steve couldn’t see any threats or sign that they’d been recognized.  “Natasha got me new plates.”

“Natalia Alianovna Romanoff,” Bucky said in a quiet voice. “Multiple aliases. Priority one threat.”

“She’s a friend,” Steve said before Bucky could get any real traction and recite Natasha’s whole dossier. Just how much had HYDRA done to Bucky? It was as if they’d stuck a whole computer in his head, full of intel on all of S.H.I.E.L.D. Then again, they probably had. HYDRA had practically been running everything for decades.

Bucky shot Steve a look — that dark frown that was already becoming all too familiar.

“She’s a friend,” Steve repeated firmly.

After a moment, Bucky nodded. “I’ll try to remember,” he said quietly.

Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and hid a wince as he felt solid metal under Bucky’s jacket. He _really_ had to remember to avoid Bucky’s left side.

He dropped his hand as casually as he could and fished in his pocket for his keys. The bike was a Softail Breakout that Harley-Davidson had presented to him in a ceremony at their headquarters in Milwaukee. Steve had never liked doing PR appearances — not back in the forties and not now — but he loved the way motorcycle technology had improved over the decades. At least _something_ in the world had improved.

Steve wore a helmet mostly because he’d gotten sick of cops pulling him over, then offering to ‘overlook’ the helmet laws in return for Captain America’s autograph or a ‘phone selfie’ with him. Besides, it wasn’t nearly as annoying as the old uniform helmet.

After he and Natasha had started working on the same team, he’d changed out the single seat for one that would be comfortable and safe for a passenger in case Natasha wanted to go out for lunch or needed a ride on the days they used to go to the office together. He’d also taken to carrying a spare helmet. It was still there, locked to the back fender. He unlocked both helmets, handed the spare to Bucky, then put on his own.

“A helmet?” Bucky asked, a hint of disbelief creeping into his tone.

Steve grinned. “This is a new bike, Bucky. I’m not getting into a police chase. It’d scratch the paint,” he said, patting the gas tank affectionately before he climbed onto the seat. “Helmet, or you walk,” he threatened, though it was an empty threat. He’d abandon the bike if Bucky put up a real fuss.

But after a moment, Bucky put on the helmet and climbed onto the back of the bike. Steve put up the kickstand and pushed the bike upright, frowning at how Bucky’s tense body affected the bike’s balance. With the two of them on the bike, it had to be over a thousand pounds, turning the bike from a smooth-running machine to a deathtrap on two wheels. Natasha’s slight weight and grace had spoiled Steve.

“Ease up, Bucky. I’m not going to get us killed.” Steve dug around in his jacket pocket until he found the leather gloves Maria had bought him last Christmas. He twisted and offered them to Bucky, saying, “Put these on, so you can hold onto my belt or something.”

Bucky’s frown reappeared. “Why?” he asked, though he took the gloves.

“Because I don’t want to fight your balance the whole way to the hotel, much less all the way to New York.”

Still frowning, Bucky pulled on the gloves. With his metal arm and hand completely hidden, it was as if another part of the legendary Winter Soldier fell away, leaving behind the man he’d once been. Steve couldn’t help but grin, and tentatively Bucky smiled back.

“Now relax,” Steve said, taking hold of the handlebars. Bucky grabbed Steve’s hips, fingers digging in harder than Natasha ever had. “Easy,” Steve protested. “Are you trying to leave bruises or something?”

Bucky’s exhale was sharp. Frustrated. “I still want...”

 _To kill me,_ Steve thought with a little chill. “I know. It’s all right,” he said, letting go of the handlebar long enough to pat Bucky’s hand. “It’s all right, Bucky. Bruises heal.”


	2. Chapter 2

The hotel was twenty miles northeast of Washington DC. Steve had checked in that morning and charged the room to a credit card under a false name that Natasha had helped him arrange, though he’d pay the bill in cash. As it turned out, S.H.I.E.L.D. had paid him very well, both before and after his supposed death. Once Tony’s lawyers settled things with the government, Steve had found himself rich, at least by his own modest standards.

He parked the bike and held it steady while Bucky dismounted. Steve followed, hiding a wince as his blue jeans scraped over his left hip where Bucky’s metal fingers had dug bruises into Steve’s flesh. He’d need to get Bucky to work on controlling his strength.

Once the helmets were locked onto the bike and the alarm was set, Steve brought Bucky up to the third floor room. Two big beds with garish bedspreads, off-white walls, a color television on the dresser, one narrow window. It was better than a tent in the field, but like Sam had said a lifetime ago, the bed was too soft.

“Why don’t you go shower? I’ll order a couple of pizzas,” Steve offered, thinking it wouldn’t be wise to take Bucky grocery shopping. Besides, Steve still didn’t like microwaved food. The texture was just _off_.

Bucky looked towards the bathroom as he worked the glove off his metal hand. Then he pulled off the other glove.

“Is pizza okay?” Steve asked hesitantly. He and Bucky had gone down to Totonno’s in Coney Island a couple of times for pizza. “You used to like it.”

“I don’t remember.” Bucky looked down, then dropped the gloves on the vanity.

“It’s okay.” Steve got the feeling he’d be saying that a lot in the near future. “Oh. I’ll get you clean clothes, too. And here — actually, let me,” he said, moving past Bucky to the bathroom. Every plumbing company in the world seemed to have its own style of valves, and Steve had ended up burned or frozen more than once when he couldn’t figure out a new shower.

This shower had a single handle to set the temperature and a ring on the tub faucet to switch the water from the tub to the shower. Only when he had the water steaming but not scorching did he stop to wonder if Bucky even _could_ shower with his prosthetic arm.

“Hey, Bucky?” he asked as he stood and turned —

And froze, because Bucky was _right there,_ a dark, silent ghost filling the doorway. He’d removed his jacket, and his metal arm gleamed in the harsh bathroom light.

Steve let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone but Natasha had snuck up on him, and even Natasha was only successful about half the time. He almost made a joke about putting a bell on the cat, except Bucky would never be anyone’s pet again. Steve would die before he let that happen.

“Um. Your arm,” he said, making himself look at it for just a moment. Then his eyes slid from the repellent metal to Bucky’s chest, where his heart still beat and his lungs still breathed. He was alive... and strong, Steve realized, because the too-small T-shirt showed the contours of muscles that Bucky hadn’t had when he’d gone off to war. He’d always been strong, but not like this.

“My arm?”

Steve jerked his eyes back up. What was he doing, staring like that? He gestured awkwardly back towards the shower. “Can you — It won’t rust or anything will it?”

“No.” He lifted his left hand and clenched his fist. “The metal alloy was designed to counter your shield.”

That explained a lot. Steve would have to remember to mention it to Tony. Now, though, Bucky needed to shower, and Steve needed to order food.

“Okay. So, uh, by the time you’re done, I’ll have food,” Steve said quickly as he slid past Bucky — or tried to.

Bucky didn’t move, and the bathroom was cramped. Steve ended up having to push between Bucky’s human arm and the towel rack. Bucky didn’t move out of the way; he just turned, watching with an intensity Steve couldn’t read. Not quite a predator watching prey. There was a desperate, almost frightened edge that Steve had never seen on Bucky’s face, _before_.

Remembering how touch-starved he’d been, he put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and said, “I’ll be right out here.”

Then he escaped, closing the door with a quiet _click_.

He made it out of the foyer before he heard the bathroom door open. Wondering if maybe Bucky was confused by the array of tiny hotel supplies, Steve looked back, just as the shower curtain rings rattled. Bucky’s clothes were on the bathroom floor, and Steve could just barely see the dark shadow of his body beyond the translucent white shower curtain.

Steve’s throat went dry. He watched for a few seconds too long before reminding himself that Bucky deserved some privacy, even if he’d opened the bathroom door. Or was that an invitation?

Steve was  _not_ going to think that way — not with his best friend, not after everything Bucky had been through. He had his best friend back, at least a little bit. Pizza, a good night’s sleep, and then off to Manhattan to hide for a while. That was more than enough.

 

~~~

 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Sheila,” Steve said as he twitched back the ugly maroon curtain and looked out the window.

“Dave! How’ve you been?” Natasha asked in a cheerful voice that Steve hoped was genuine.

“Uh. Good, I guess. I found an old friend.”

“Is he cute?”

“Yeah,” Steve answered thoughtlessly. Then he felt his face go hot as he realized what he’d said. “I mean, you’d — you’d like him. He’s got kind of a bad past, but he’s in a better place now.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” she answered with a sharper edge in her voice. “Is this where you invite me out to dinner to meet him?”

“I’m only in DC for one more night. I was thinking of heading to Malibu,” Steve said, which was code for Tony’s New York address.

“I’m in. I got a new swimsuit. You boys will love it.” She blew a kiss into the phone and hung up, leaving Steve to wonder if ‘swimsuit’ was code for a new weapon or if she was actually telling the truth. Neither would surprise him.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Be right there!” he called, picking up his wallet.

He hadn’t made it a single step, though, before Bucky stalked into sight, wearing only the water that ran down his pale skin. In his hands, he carried two small, lethally sharp knives.

“Whoa! Bucky, easy,” Steve said, checking his instinctive rush forward. The last thing he wanted was to trigger an attack. Instead, he walked slowly towards Bucky, hands lifted and empty except for his wallet. “It’s okay. It’s just the pizza guy.”

“HYDRA is everywhere,” Bucky warned, taking a step back and to the side, so he could cover both Steve and the door.

Careful not to break eye contact — not to let his gaze drop below Bucky’s nose — Steve kept walking. “Yeah, but HYDRA’s just as messed up as S.H.I.E.L.D. right now, remember? And I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry, and what you’re smelling now? That’s pepperoni.”

Bucky’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and he lowered the knives. Steve glanced down, eyes drawn by the motion — and then wrenched his gaze back up again, though not before noting that, yes, Bucky was in _very_ good shape.

Still moving slowly, Steve went to the foyer. He waved Bucky back, then unlocked and opened the door. The kid in the hallway was young, maybe nineteen, with an insulated pizza carrier in one hand and a plastic bag at his feet. “Hey, man,” the kid said, never knowing how close he’d come to a painful death.

Walking out into the hallway, Steve smiled. “Hey,” he said, and made sure to give the kid a big tip in exchange for the two pizzas and a bag with a two-liter bottle of what passed for Coca-Cola these days.

Back inside, Steve saw that Bucky was in the shower again, thank God, though the door was still open. Steve closed and locked the hallway door, this time latching the security bar, smiling slightly as he remembered Natasha’s rant on hotel security.

With a little shrug, Steve brought everything into the main room. Usually, he tried to watch the evening news, though he’d learned the hard way that it was all lies and cover-ups. Spin, Natasha called it; Sam just called it all bullshit.

But exposing Bucky to the confusion of evening news was probably a bad idea. Instead, Steve put one pizza on each bed, put the Coke on the nightstand, and then sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door. He put two plastic cups on the nightstand with the Coke, half the napkins on each bed, and then sorted through the fake cheese to pick out all the packets of red pepper flakes.

Remembering Bucky’s filthy clothes, Steve went to the front of the room and carefully didn’t look through the open bathroom door. There was a long, narrow closet opposite the vanity and sink. Steve had thrown his saddlebags and the shield in there earlier. Now, he took out the saddlebags and started rifling through. Jeans, clean underwear, socks, a T-shirt. He put everything in a neat pile.

“I’m leaving clothes out here on the counter,” Steve yelled towards the bathroom without allowing himself to look. There was no answer. Hopefully, Bucky was enjoying the hot water. It had to be a luxury, after whatever he’d been through. Steve went back to the main room and sat down on his bed, trying not to think about what that might have been.

The shower was still running when Bucky walked into the main room, carrying his knives. His wet hair was slicked back, no longer hiding his face. The jeans were tight around his hips and thighs and too long, bunching up on his bare feet. The T-shirt was looser than the one he’d been wearing, but Steve’s memory all too accurately supplied the image of the shadows and contours of Bucky’s muscled body.

 _Stop thinking that!_ he told himself, turning to point at the other bed. He thought about going to turn off the shower, but he didn’t want to leave Bucky alone. “Chow’s up. I figured pepperoni would be okay?”

Bucky put the knives down on the bed before he sat. “I don’t eat.” He looked at his right forearm with his palm turned up. When he clenched his fist, veins stood out over the muscles.

“You —” Steve swallowed back his horror at what Bucky had endured. “But you _can_ , right? I mean, I guess I can take you to the hospital —”

_“No!”_

Steve looked up to see Bucky’s eyes had gone wide and full of fear. “No hospital,” Steve promised, crossing the aisle to sit on the bed next to Bucky. “No hospital. Just pizza.” He leaned back and around Bucky so he could open the box. His stomach growled — or Bucky’s did. Maybe both. The pizza smelled _good_.

He took out one of the pieces and folded it in half. The crust cracked, and grease dripped all over his hands, but he took a bite anyway, before reaching for a napkin.

“See? Go ahead. Try some,” Steve urged after he swallowed.

Bucky twisted and reached for the box, though his hand went still over the knives instead. He took a deep breath, body tense, and then picked up a slice of pizza. He darted a look at the slice in Steve’s hand, folded his own slice the same way, and then took a very tentative bite. The cheese slid off the crust, and he had to catch it with one finger. He swallowed, then licked his finger clean, tongue and lips dragging over his own skin in a way that shut down Steve’s brain.

Then Bucky turned, and their eyes met. Steve’s grin was a little forced. He looked down at the slice he’d forgotten he was still holding. “Good, huh?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Yes,” he said, and took another bite, no longer tentative.

 

~~~

 

Bucky had finished one pizza before Steve was even halfway through the other. Hoping Bucky wasn’t going to make himself sick, Steve passed over a couple more slices. Bucky’s _“I don’t eat”_ weighed heavily on Steve’s mind. Bucky obviously _could_ eat, but Steve guessed that he’d been sustained through machines and tubes this whole time.

Two dozen assassinations over fifty years, Natasha had said, but Bucky didn’t look like he’d aged a day.

Well, no. That wasn’t true. Bucky looked worn out, used up, three-quarters dead but still impossibly on his feet. But Steve couldn’t imagine that he’d _lived_ through all those years, meaning...

Meaning what?

Careful not to startle Bucky, Steve got up and went to wash his hands and turn off the shower. He’d survived the decades because of the arctic ice. Had Bucky been put in cryo-freeze between missions? Probably. Sustained through science, with IVs and heart monitors and whatever hellish experiments HYDRA had done to try and erase Bucky’s thoughts and personality.

He didn’t want to think about it, but he had to. He couldn’t help Bucky until he knew what they’d done to him.

He went back into the main room, feeling Bucky’s eyes on him as he walked around to his bed. What was going on in Bucky’s head? Was he watching Steve for any sign that he was a threat? Did he know Steve only wanted to help him? Or was Steve simply the only familiar anchor in an unfamiliar world?

“Look, Bucky,” he said gently, piling his pillows against the headboard. He got comfortable, trying to look as harmless as he could. “If you want to talk about anything — about what you remember or about what happened, anything at all — you go ahead, okay? Whatever you want, I’m here for you.”

Slowly, Bucky put down the pizza crust he was holding. His gaze went to the knives, though he didn’t reach for them.

“It’s two separate files, with no connection between them,” Bucky said, choosing his words with care. “I _remember_ Hydra. The mission. _Missions,_ ” he corrected. “But I don’t _know_ those things.”

Steve wanted to say that wasn’t _him_ — that wasn’t _Bucky_ on those missions — but he suspected that would make things more confusing. Instead, he just said, “And the other file?”

“It’s what I _know_ , but I can’t read it. Not clearly.” Bucky looked across the aisle between the two beds. “I know you. I know Brooklyn. But it’s a target dossier, not... not a _memory_.”

“But at least you know.” Steve sat forward, resting his forearms on his bent knees. “That’s good. That means you’re starting to remember. Like the pizza. Remember when we’d go down to Coney Island? A nickel for the subway to the beach, and a dime to change clothes in one of the houses near the beach. Or remember when we’d save up a couple of quarters so we could go on the roller coaster?”

“The... Cyclone?” Bucky ventured uncertainly.

“Yeah.” Steve laughed. “Yeah, see? You remember.”

Bucky’s hesitant smile reappeared. “You were shorter. Smaller.”

“That never stopped me from getting in trouble. I’d pick fights, and then you’d come in and end them with one punch. To the other guy, not me,” Steve said with another grin. “You were always saving me from myself.”

Bucky picked up the pizza crust again and turned to fully face Steve. “Tell me more,” he said before he went back to eating.

“Okay.” Steve leaned back against his pillows and looked up at the off-white, textured ceiling. “That was how we met, you know. I was twelve. You were thirteen. You saw me fighting these two guys in an alley. I guess I needed a little help, and, well, there you were...”

 

~~~

 

While Bucky worked through the rest of the pizza, Steve talked himself hoarse, pausing only to pour another Coke whenever his throat got too dry. While he talked, he got his sketchpad out of his saddlebags and started to draw little reminders of life in another era. The clothes, the corner store where they’d spent their pennies on candy, the cars and the crowds and the kitchen where Steve’s mom had cooked them dinner before she’d died.

Finally, though, the sugar and caffeine in the Coke wore off, and the day’s emotional stresses caught up with Steve. He picked up their trash, threw out what would fit in the little wastebasket, and stacked the pizza boxes on top. He moved his sketchpad and pencils onto the nightstand, saying, “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll get up, have breakfast, and then head up to New York. I want to take back roads, so it’ll take most of the day.”

Bucky didn’t move from where he’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, watching Steve. “I don’t sleep.”

Steve frowned and stopped rearranging his pillows. “You have to sleep, Bucky.”

In answer, Bucky stuck a hand in the pocket of his borrowed jeans and took out a round metal box, almost the same size as Steve’s old compass. He opened it and showed Steve a dozen or so small white pills. “I —”

“No,” Steve interrupted sharply, holding out his hand. “No, Bucky. You need to sleep, not take... whatever those are. That’s got to be part of what’s messing with your memory.” He twitched his fingers insistently. “Hand them over.”

Hesitantly, Bucky put the open box on Steve’s palm. “I don’t remember how to sleep.”

Steve got up so he could put the pills in his saddlebags. He wanted to flush them, but he figured it would be better to have Tony analyze them. The more they knew about what HYDRA had done, the sooner they could erase the Winter Soldier and get Bucky back to normal.

“Take off your jeans so you’re comfortable,” Steve said thoughtlessly, and thank God his back was turned. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen Bucky in his underwear or even naked — they’d shared changing rooms and bunked together plenty of times. But now, it was different. _Too_ different.

The mirror was right there, though, and Steve’s eyesight was sharp. He watched Bucky’s reflection stand. Unbutton and unzip. Push down dark blue denim to reveal solid muscles and pale, unscarred skin. Steve closed the flap on the saddlebags and turned back, keeping his eyes averted as he pulled back the hideous bedspread on Bucky’s bed.

“Put the knives on the table there, where you can reach them. Then lie down. Get comfortable. You used to sleep on your side,” Steve added, hoping to help Bucky remember.

Bucky did as he was told, but the look on his face was nervous, even frightened. This really was _new_ for him, Steve thought, wondering if Bucky was physically addicted to those pills. If so, Steve would have to give them back until they could get Bucky some sort of medical attention.

He got Bucky to lie down on his right side, not knowing if it would be uncomfortable for him to lie on his artificial arm. Then he pulled the blanket all the way up, hiding Bucky’s body. “Now you just close your eyes, and let yourself fall asleep. Okay?”

Bucky nodded, though he kept his eyes open, fixed on Steve.

“I’ll be right here. Do you want me to leave the lights on, or are you okay with the dark?” Steve asked lightly, as if it were perfectly normal for an adult to be afraid of the dark.

“I’m used to the dark.”

That thought was more than a little heartbreaking. Steve thought about leaving the lights on anyway, but he figured Bucky might sleep better without them. So he walked around the room, turning off the lights, leaving the one between the beds for last. Only when it was mostly dark did he take off his jeans and drape them over the bottom of his bed.

Then he got under his own blanket and folded his hands under his head. Faint light from the parking lot glowed around the curtain. “You okay, Bucky?”

The answer was a faint, “Yes.”

Steve closed his eyes, wishing he knew what else to do. “Okay. If you need anything, just wake me up.”

“Good night, Bucky,” Steve said softly.


	3. Chapter 3

The shift of the mattress snapped Steve awake in an instant, though he didn’t move. For weeks, Natasha had attacked Steve in the dark of night until he’d learned to suppress a waking flinch. Heart pounding, he lay absolutely still and tried to keep his breathing slow and light.

 _Bucky_.

Oh, God. Bucky was in the room. Had he slipped into the Winter Soldier? Was he going to attack?

At his back, the mattress creaked and shifted again. Steve had rolled onto his side, away from Bucky. The dip in the mattress made him think Bucky was sitting there. Or maybe he was kneeling over Steve, one of those knives in his metal hand...

The next time Bucky moved, he tugged the blanket down over Steve’s shoulder. It felt... it felt like Bucky was lying down next to him.

His eyes flew open, though he didn’t otherwise move. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense.

Bucky’s bare foot slid down the back of Steve’s calf. The dip in the mattress evened out. Bucky’s hand — his human right hand — skittered over Steve’s back. Bucky’s skin was cool; when his fingers reached Steve’s bare forearm, the touch was almost icy. Gently, Bucky’s fingers curled around Steve’s forearm, sliding down until they circled Steve’s wrist.

Bucky stopped moving.

What was Steve supposed to do now? Should he pretend to be asleep? No point in it. Bucky’s fingers were resting over Steve’s racing pulse. Should he roll over? Tell Bucky to go back to the other bed? Did he _want_ Bucky to go back to the other bed?

Before Steve could come up with an answer, Bucky pulled up the blankets. His fingers twitched against Steve’s wrist without letting go.

Slowly, as Steve’s heart calmed down, the air under the blankets warmed back up. Thinking that Bucky had to be uncomfortable with his arm lifted up the way it was, Steve closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. Bucky tensed, jerking his hand back.

 _It’s okay, Bucky,_ Steve thought, though he didn’t dare say the words.

Seconds passed.

Then, Bucky lowered his hand, fumbling, feeling for Steve’s arm again. The light touch sent a shiver through Steve’s body, a shiver that turned to heat that was _so inappropriate_. Steve closed his eyes more tightly and held still while Bucky took hold of his wrist once more.

He should probably say something, but what? This was his best friend. His _friend_ , not something else. Something more.

Or was Bucky remembering? Not that there was anything between them to remember, but... well, all over the old neighborhood, guys were more interested in other guys than in girls. The kids in school whispered about the St. George Hotel, the automats, the illicit drag clubs that got raided every other week. How many times had he watched the cops parade the performers out in their bright gowns and wigs and heavy makeup, only to have the drag queens return the next night?

They’d grown up surrounded by that sort of thing, but they’d never really spoken about it. Steve had liked girls well enough, and he figured if he was looking at guys, well, it was probably just curiosity.

He’d been ninety-four years old before he’d ever heard the word _bisexual_.

But this was something else. It had to be. Bucky was just... searching for human warmth. Human comfort. This wasn’t _sex_ , and Steve wouldn’t even hint at it. Instead, he got comfortable, folding his free hand under his pillow, and concentrated on counting his breaths until he fell back asleep.

 

~~~

 

Steve took a deep breath and opened his eyes to the soft glow of sunlight bleeding around the curtain. He stretched —

And he froze when his back pressed against a warm, solid body.

Stupidly, he almost asked who it was before he remembered yesterday, at the Smithsonian. The National Mall. The riverbank.

Casually, he got out of bed on the side by the wall, so he didn’t have to turn and look back at Bucky. He made a cowardly escape to the bathroom, where he took his time washing up. What could he possibly say to Bucky to smooth over this... awkwardness?

Suddenly, all those ‘morning after’ sitcom jokes made sense.

He went out to the closet in the foyer and called, “I’m going to take a quick shower. Then we’ll go get breakfast and hit the road, okay?”

There was no answer. Maybe Bucky was still asleep? If he hadn’t slept in seventy years, then he probably needed to catch up.

So Steve took a change of clothes, went back into the bathroom, and closed the door most of the way, leaving it cracked an inch in case Bucky called for him. He showered quickly, without waiting for the water to heat up, and decided he wouldn’t say anything about last night. Maybe Bucky just had trouble sleeping alone, and sharing a bed was a better idea than letting Bucky have one of those pills.

When Steve shut off the water, he heard the faint sound of breathing. He pushed the curtain aside and saw Bucky leaning against the counter outside the bathroom door. “Give me one minute to dry off,” Steve called, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist. He stepped out of the tub, took down another towel so he could dry off, then opened the door.

Bucky straightened up, pushing himself back against the counter to give Steve just enough room to inch past him. He hadn’t put on his borrowed jeans, though he’d picked up his knives from the nightstand. His hair was a tangled mess, with strands caught in his beard and eyelashes.

“Sleep okay?” Steve asked thoughtlessly, forgetting all about the awkwardness until it was too late.

Bucky frowned. After giving the question far too much consideration, he finally said, “I slept.”

“Good. That’s... good.” Steve smiled. “Listen, if you want to borrow a razor, so you can shave, go ahead.”

The frown deepened. “It won’t fool facial recognition, but I’m not in any databases.”

Steve blinked at that. Then he laughed, saying, “No, but you always said you hated having a beard.”

“I don’t...” Bucky trailed off and looked down. His tangled hair fell forwards, brushing his face. “I don’t remember how.”

“I can help,” Steve offered. When Bucky looked up again and met his eyes, Steve smiled encouragingly. “Just let me get dressed first. Bathroom’s all yours.”

 

~~~

 

“So, this is what passes for shaving cream now,” Steve said, showing Bucky the bright red and white can. “You used to need a brush to work up a lather. Now, it’s pressurized.”

He put the can down on the counter, carefully aimed away from Bucky, and pressed the top. The can hissed, and Bucky flinched away, one hand twitching towards the knife he’d stuck into his pocket.

“Easy. See?” Steve picked up the can and sprayed shaving cream onto his palm. Bucky watched, though this time he didn’t flinch. Steve swiped his fingers through the shaving cream and reached up to rub Bucky’s jaw. “This keeps your skin from getting raw from the razor. This isn’t supposed to hurt, so if —”

“Everything hurts,” Bucky interrupted.

Steve froze. “What?”

“It did. It used to.” Bucky looked down, though he didn’t move away from Steve’s hand.

“But not now, right? You’re not in pain now?”

Bucky darted a quick look at Steve. He shook his head.

“Good.” Steve gathered up more shaving cream and started smoothing it over the other side of Bucky’s beard. “If anything hurts, you tell me, okay? Or if you’re hungry or need me to pull the bike over for a while — whatever you need.”

“I know.” Bucky closed his eyes, and some of the tension seemed to leave his body. “I’m trying to _not_ want to kill you.”

Steve’s laugh was a little sharp. “Thanks. If you try, I’ll stop you, but I won’t _hurt_ you. And I won’t hold it against you.” He touched Bucky’s chin to tip his head back, baring his throat. When he sprayed more shaving cream into his hand, Bucky didn’t flinch at the sound. “What they did to you isn’t _you_. And Bucky Barnes would never hurt me. I know that, and somewhere inside, I think you know that, too.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Steve grinned and rinsed off his hands. “Okay. Head back down. Look here,” he said, picking up one of the disposable razors he’d picked up a few days back. Before the serum, his beard had never grown in beyond a few scraggly hairs. Even now, he still had a few days before he absolutely had to shave. “Now, we both know you could probably kill someone with this, but I’m going to try my best not to nick you, only I’ve never done this for someone else before.”

Bucky met Steve’s eyes. “I trust you.”

 _Progress,_ Steve thought, giving the blade a quick rinse. “Thanks, Bucky. Try not to move, okay?”

Instead of relaxing, though, Bucky went tense. The wary, hunted look returned to his eyes.

Steve dropped the razor beside the sink so he could take hold of Bucky’s shoulder. “Hey. Relax, pal. It’s okay.”

“The chair,” Bucky said softly in a flat, wooden tone. “The chair, where they made me forget —”

“Whoa. No chair, see?” Remembering how Bucky had been strapped down to the experimenting table back in the Austrian Alps, Steve took a step back, giving Bucky room. “Want me to show you how to do this yourself?”

Bucky stared at Steve, jaw clenched. He lifted his right hand tentatively, as if expecting it to be slapped back down, and took hold of Steve’s forearm. “No.”

Steve let Bucky draw him close again. “Okay. But I promise, this isn’t supposed to hurt. If I cut you, it’s by accident, and you tell me right away.”

Still tense, Bucky nodded. He didn’t let go of Steve’s arm. Though it was a little awkward, Steve picked up the razor, set it to the top of Bucky’s jawline, and dragged it lightly down, holding the blade at the most shallow angle possible. The blade scraped off most of the shaving cream and maybe half of the hairs, leaving behind a ragged mix of stubble and beard, but that was fine with Steve. He’d spend an hour at this, if it meant Bucky never felt the razorblade touch his skin.

“Is that okay?” he asked, reaching awkwardly between their bodies so he could rinse off the razor.

Bucky exhaled. “Yes,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Good. Here, can you move over to the other side of the sink?”

Bucky looked down at his hand, still wrapped around Steve’s forearm. He let go.

“No, it’s okay.” Steve held out his arm. “You can hold on, if you want. I’m just going to get water and shaving cream all over us if we don’t move.”

Tentatively, Bucky took Steve’s arm again and let Steve move him to the far side of the counter, putting the sink on Steve’s right side.

“Better. Thanks.” Steve picked up the razor and set it to Bucky’s jaw again. As he drew it down, he said, “It’s a lot easier than doing this with a straight razor. And they’ve got these razors with wires over the blade, so the edge never touches your skin at all. We can stop at a drugstore and pick up some of those. You need other stuff. A toothbrush, a comb, that sort of thing.”

With each bloodless stroke of the razor, Bucky relaxed, though he never released Steve’s arm.  When Steve switched the razor to the right side of his face, he turned to give Steve better access.

“So, before we go, do you need to get anything? Clothes or a bag or something?” Steve asked, moving more slowly as he got close to Bucky’s throat.

“No.”

Steve wanted to ask how Bucky had been surviving since the fight on the helicarrier, but he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer. _It wasn’t him_ , he told himself as he slowly, carefully shaved over Bucky’s chin.

“I need my other hand, but you can still hold on,” he said, lifting his left hand. Bucky shifted his grip on Steve’s forearm so he didn’t have to let go. Steve rinsed the razor again and said, “If you don’t want to end up with a moustache...” He touched two fingers to Bucky’s upper lip and pulled down, holding the skin taut. Tense as Bucky still was, his lips were softer than Steve had imagined. As Steve shaved in short, cautious strokes, Bucky parted his lips and exhaled hot breath over Steve’s hand.

Steve couldn’t resist moving his fingers to Bucky’s lower lip. He could just feel the impression of teeth. He cleaned up Bucky’s chin even more slowly, reluctant to lose this stolen moment of closeness.

Only when he finally drew his hand away did he realize that Bucky’s fingers were pressed against the inside of his wrist, over his pulse. Steve pulled away as casually as he could and busied himself with rinsing the razor and capping the shaving cream.

“Go ahead and rinse off what’s left of the foam. I didn’t shave as close as I could, but maybe you can give it a try tomorrow, if you want.”

As Steve turned to reach for a towel, Bucky grabbed his arm. He caught Steve’s gaze — trapped it, held it with such intensity that everything else seemed to fade into shadow.

Softly, Bucky said, “You didn’t hurt me, Steve.”

“I won’t. I mean... ” Steve took a deep breath. “You’re my closest friend. Sometimes accidents happen, and sometimes even friends do stupid things, but in the end, they’re still friends.”

Bucky looked down at his hand, still wrapped around Steve’s arm. His fingers dug in tightly, tight enough to leave bruises on most people, but Steve thought it was unintentional. It didn’t feel like a test.

After a few seconds, Bucky let go. He turned to the sink and leaned over to rinse the shaving cream from his face. Steve could still feel the warm imprint of Bucky’s hand on his arm. Bucky kept holding him like that — around his arm or his wrist. Why not his hand? Was it too... romantic, holding hands? Maybe a shrink could figure it out, but not Steve.

 

~~~

 

In a way, the shield was Steve’s own fault. Sure, from the first minute he’d picked up the convex disk down in the bunker below London, he’d known the shield was _perfect_ , but it was a pain in the butt when it came to covert transportation.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had made up an olive drab canvas bag, like an army duffel bag, to soften the distinctive round shape of the shield. The bag had a long carry strap and two shorter, padded straps that would let him carry the shield high up on his back, like the world’s most awful backpack, for when he was on his motorcycle. It wasn’t too bad, though if he rode too fast, for too long, he’d end up with faint bruises under his arms from the lousy aerodynamics.

Uncomfortable as it was for Steve, it was ten times worse for a passenger. When Natasha rode with him, she swore so freely that Steve had actually started picking up some of her Russian vocabulary. Still, Steve didn’t like leaving the shield unsecured. He would’ve brought it to the Smithsonian instead of leaving it in his hotel room, if not for their one-bag-only policy.

Steve parked the bike outside the IHOP just down the road from the motel. He shut off the engine, put down the kickstand, and turned to look over the edge of his shield at Bucky. “So, uh... you don’t have any killing urges aimed at anyone in there, do you?” he asked with a tense little smile.

Bucky pulled off his helmet, which did nothing for his hair. “I don’t know,” he admitted, taking Steve’s question at face-value. “I might.”

“You know, I never thought I’d find myself weighing the merits of pancakes versus chaos.”

Bucky blinked at him. Then, his mouth twitched into a slight smile. “Stay with me. You’re my primary target.” His fingertips pressed against Steve’s hips. “If you run, I’ll pursue.”

This was probably a bad idea, but Steve didn’t want to keep Bucky ‘safely’ locked away. He’d been locked away for too long already.

“Deal.”

After they dismounted, Steve locked the helmets to the bike over their saddlebags. The bike’s alarm would keep the saddlebags safe, but he felt obliged to carry the shield with him, awkward as it was. He slung the long carry-strap over one shoulder, raked a hand through his short hair to tame it, and headed for the IHOP. Bucky fell in at his side, and for a moment, it was _right_ in a way that Steve had thought was lost forever, the two of them against the world.

Steve grinned at Bucky, and Bucky’s answering smile was even less tentative, lighting a spark in his clear blue eyes. Steve laughed for the sheer joy of it and said, “You’re going to love the pancakes.”

Bucky’s frown was puzzled, not distressed. “Pancakes?”

Steve didn’t think. He just wrapped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulled him close, just like Bucky had done with him, back in the old days. “Trust me, pal.”

Bucky’s frown melted away. “I do.”

 

~~~

 

The pancakes were a success.

So were the eggs over easy, the bacon, the toast, the strawberry-topped waffle that they split, and the coffee. Steve had never been in danger of putting on weight even before the serum, and apparently Bucky had seventy years of catching up to do. They only stopped when the waitress said, “I don’t know where you boys are putting it all. You prepping for a marathon or something, with all those carbs?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Steve said with a sheepish grin. He gave up on the idea of introducing Bucky to dessert — there was time enough for that at lunch — and instead picked up the check. He turned to Bucky, who was sitting next to him, to better hide the metal arm, and asked, “You ready to hit the road?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and he was silent for a few seconds. Then he asked, “To leave?”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry,” Steve said, realizing just how bad it would’ve been for Bucky to take his words literally.

“I thought I remembered, but...” Bucky touched his fingertips to the back of Steve’s hand. “You’re helping.”

Steve resisted the urge to turn his hand over. “That’s what friends do.” He gave Bucky another smile, then slid out of the booth. “Pass me my shield?” Bucky got out of the booth, pulled the shield out from under the table, and handed the bag to Steve, who slung it over his shoulder. “If you need to use the men’s room, better go now. I’ll stop to gas up the bike, but then I want to put some miles between us and DC.”

Without saying a word, Bucky turned and walked towards the bathrooms in the back of the restaurant. Steve watched him go, wondering if it was safe to leave him on his own. He could just picture Bucky getting startled by the sound of a toilet flushing and destroying the plumbing. But he hadn’t done that in the hotel, so Steve went to the cash register instead. He paid, broke a twenty, and went back to the table to leave the patient waitress a hefty tip. Then he went to the men’s room to use the facilities and look for Bucky.

He found Bucky at the sink, hiding whatever he was doing. Bucky shot a look over his shoulder, met Steve’s eyes, and relaxed.

“You okay?” Steve asked, walking over to him.

In answer, Bucky held out his metal hand, showing the ridged joints over his knuckles. Some of them were gleaming, as if polished clean; others looked gunked up. He used his knife to scrape out some of what looked like syrup and powdered sugar.

Steve grinned. “Maybe we can find you a different glove, so you don’t have to do that. A thin one, like what doctors wear,” he said, and went into one of the stalls so he could put down his shield. Tony could definitely help with that, assuming he was in a good mood and not feeling like a complete jerk. Fifty-fifty chance, that.

A few minutes later, Steve put on his sunglasses and led Bucky back out into the bright morning sunlight. The day was full of promise. No alien invasions, no political betrayals, no emergencies at all. Just his best friend, his motorcycle, and the open road.

He unlocked the helmets and put his on again, not wanting cops to interfere. He started to rearrange the shield on his back, but then looked over at Bucky. He didn’t have sunglasses. With his bright blue eyes visible, squinting against the bright light, and his long, ratty hair hidden by his helmet, he looked even more like the old Bucky.

“Think you can hold this for me?” Steve asked, offering Bucky the shield.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. “Your shield? But you have no other weapon.”

Steve couldn’t deny that a chill shot through him at Bucky’s words, but he ignored it. “That’s okay. I’ve got you watching my back, right?”

Bucky took the shield with an almost reverent care. He put his metal arm through one short back-strap, then slung the bag over his shoulder and reached back. Thinking he was settling the shield in place, Steve turned and climbed onto the bike. As he started the engine, he felt a hard press against his shoulder.

He turned and saw Bucky’s long fighting knife, still in its sheath. Baffled, he looked up into Bucky’s eyes.

“Take it,” Bucky said.

It wasn’t necessary. They weren’t going to get in a fight on the road — and if they did, the knife probably wouldn’t make much of a difference. But for all that Bucky was regaining some part of himself, he was still the Winter Soldier, and Steve suspected the Winter Soldier would _never_ willingly give up his weapons.

“Thanks, pal,” Steve said softly. He leaned forward to clip the knife to the back of his belt, where he could hide it under his leather jacket.

Bucky nodded and climbed onto the bike. He settled into place behind Steve as if he’d always been there, thighs just touching Steve’s legs, hands resting comfortably on Steve’s hips. Without the shield between them, Steve just had to lean back an inch to feel Bucky there.

“All settled?” he asked, putting a hand over Bucky’s.

“Yes.”

Steve pushed the bike upright, put up the kickstand, and then let go of Bucky’s hand. Maybe Steve imagined it, but it felt like Bucky leaned a little closer, held on a little tighter. Hopefully, that was a sign that the old Bucky really was coming back to him.


	4. Chapter 4

According to Steve’s phone, they could’ve made it to New York City in about three hours, on major highways. Even though Steve wanted to avoid notice, they probably would have been safe — if nothing else, HYDRA would be looking for one solo rider, not the two of them together — but he also was strangely reluctant to rush.

New York would bring a measure of security, but it might also open up a whole new can of worms. Tony would get curious about Bucky’s arm and identity and history. Worse, he might intentionally do something to provoke Bucky into Winter Soldier-mode. Steve hadn’t forgotten the way Tony constantly poked at Dr. Banner, just to see what would happen. If he tried any of that nonsense with Bucky, Steve might not give the Winter Soldier the chance; he’d flatten Iron Man himself.

So he stuck to back roads, stopping for gas outside Philadelphia. He and Bucky took off their helmets and got off the bike to stretch their legs, though Bucky stuck close to Steve, watching everything: the swipe of Steve’s fake credit card, the operation of the gas pump, the spinning numbers as the pump tallied gallons and dollars.

But when Steve took the cell phone from his belt and swiped the screen, Bucky lashed out at Steve’s wrist, gripping tight enough to crush a normal human’s bones. The phone flew from Steve’s numb fingers. Bucky’s metal hand slammed into Steve’s throat, and Steve’s head cracked into the cement support column next to the pump.

“Who are you contacting?” Bucky growled, his voice full of such rage that it chilled Steve to the bone. But the momentary flash of anger — of betrayal — died out when Steve saw the raw fear in Bucky’s eyes.

“No one,” Steve choked out, fighting to ignore the instinct that urged him to struggle. “It’s a map —”

Bucky’s fingers tightened; Steve’s pulse hammered in his ears. “Who’s tracking us?” Bucky demanded.

Steve tried to shake his head. “Burn phone!” he gasped, trying to remember exactly what Natasha had called the darn thing. It was something like that. “Can’t — Can’t be traced.”

Bucky stared at him, breathing too hard for so little exertion, and Steve had the sense that Bucky was also fighting his much more deadly instincts. Slowly, Bucky’s metal hand relaxed enough for Steve to suck in a deep breath. He swallowed, feeling a twinge of pain in his throat, though he knew his body was already repairing any minimal damage.

Still, he didn’t want to trigger Bucky again, so he just relaxed back against the cement column. Beyond Bucky, Steve could see through the gas station window. The guy behind the counter was lifting a phone to his ear, darting nervous glances their way.

 _Calling the cops!_ Remembering some of Natasha’s favorite cusses, Steve said, “Bucky. Trust me. Please.”

The tension ran out of Bucky’s body. He let go of Steve’s wrist, and a look of heartbreaking confusion crossed his face. “I do,” he said, voice rising at the end as if to question himself.

 _Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable._ Hoping like hell that worked for two guys, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, pulled him close, and —

And, well, he discovered that Natasha was _much_ better at initiating kisses than Steve himself was. With Natasha, she’d sort of taken control, and the kiss had been... nice. Maybe it would have been _very_ nice, if not for the fact that they’d been surrounded by HYDRA’s agents.

This time, though, Bucky tensed up, and their lips just sort of mashed together, damp and awkward. It was nothing like kissing Peggy or the girls in the USO or even Natasha, though this might have been what Natasha felt when she’d kissed _him_.

Warily, Steve cracked one eye open and saw the attendant hang up the phone before walking around the counter. Steve didn’t move, and Bucky didn’t move, so they weren’t so much _kissing_ as they were standing about a half-inch too close together, but hopefully it _looked_ passionate or at least normal.

A few seconds later, the attendant pushed open the door and yelled, “Get a room!”

With a slightly hysterical laugh of relief, Steve let go. “Sorry!” he shouted, face burning.

Bucky took a half step back. He stared at Steve, not in rage or embarrassment, but as if Steve were some wondrous surprise that Bucky had never even imagined. It was almost like how the girls in the audience used to look at Steve in his USO days. And that was even _more_ embarrassing, because this was _Bucky_ , who’d never fallen for the Captain America schtick.

“Sorry, pal,” Steve said very softly. He wanted to laugh it off, to brush away the moment as if nothing special had happened, but inside, he was thinking that it had been a pretty darn lousy first kiss to share with... well, with the guy who’d been Steve’s very first crush from day one.

Bucky leaned down and picked up the phone. It was a sleek, flat rectangle armored in bulky black plastic and rubber, with a sheet of clear film covering the glass front. “This is —” He shook his head hard, sending hair tumbling into his eyes. “This _looks like_ a tracking device. You get orders. Intelligence reports. HYDRA can find you.”

“Yeah. Same idea.” The fall hadn’t damaged the phone at all, as far as Steve could see. He opened the map again and explained, “I just wanted to make sure we were on the right roads. See? This is our route.”

Bucky watched as Steve pinched and swiped until the map had zoomed out to show the jagged blue line between Baltimore and Manhattan. A dot near Philadelphia showed their current location. A sort of reverse-pinch zoomed the map in again, focused on the rest of their route.

“I don’t know this map program,” Bucky said.

“It’s Stark’s. Most of the country uses Google, only that’s run by S.H.I.E.L.D.” Steve grimaced and shoved the phone back into its belt holster. “HYDRA, I guess.”

Bucky nodded. “Part of the intelligence gathering division.”

“And that’s why you thought...” Steve patted Bucky’s arm, feeling a little bit better about the whole fight-and-kiss thing. “Sorry, pal. I should’ve showed you the phone first. Next time, okay?”

Bucky gave him a faint smile. “Next time.”

 

~~~

 

Even in rush hour traffic, Manhattan was shining and clean and full of a sort of promise that Steve couldn’t help but feel every time he visited. Post-Depression wartime Manhattan had been filthy and choked with fear, and though he’d heard the stories of crime and corruption, he couldn’t quite believe them. This was the Manhattan he’d come to love.

And for once, he didn’t even mind the traffic. Every time he stopped at a red light, he could put a foot down and lean back, just a little bit, and Bucky’s hands would move in response, shifting from Steve’s hips down to his thighs or up to his waist. It was probably unconscious on Bucky’s part, but Steve hoped it wasn’t.

Finally, they reached Park and 45th, and Steve started looking for the little alley that used to be the back entrance to the old Stark Tower. Tony had showed it to Steve late one night, after they’d polished off two bottles of bourbon that had zero effect on Steve’s metabolism. “Not even Fury knows,” Tony had said with a sly laugh as he staggered down the alley, clutching Steve’s arm for balance. “So if the bastard’s ever chasing you, _whoosh_. You come down here, and even Fury won’t find you.”

When he spotted the alley, a knife-thin black shadow between two high-rises, he warned, “Hang on,” and sped up so he could catch a break in the flow of pedestrians. Bucky’s hands clenched, and he leaned forward, body tense against Steve’s back. “Nobody’s going to be watching the back entrance. We’re safe.”

Bucky’s exhale was hot against Steve’s nape, sending a shiver down his spine. Steve had to concentrate to find the right grate sunken into the pavement. It was maybe an inch longer than the motorcycle, and another time Steve might have just left the bike parked outside, but not now. He didn’t want to leave any evidence that they’d been there.

So he did the worst twelve-point parallel park in history until he had the bike centered on the grate. Then he twisted and reached for the grimy No Soliciting sign next to the grey steel back door to the deli. With a soft _pop_ , the sign unlatched and swung aside, revealing what looked like a glossy black metal plate.

Steve put his hand on the plate, and it lit up from within. A bar of green light scanned down and back up, then flashed once. “We’re in,” Steve said, slapping the sign back into place just before the grate beneath them shuddered.

Bucky’s hands clenched hard on Steve’s hips. Steve dropped the kickstand and leaned back, covering both of Bucky’s hands with his.

The grate slowly descended almost ten feet before another grate slid into place overhead. There was a two-inch gap along all sides where gears crawled down the wall. The darkness was stifling, thick with a damp stench that even this clean new Manhattan couldn’t entirely erase. It was almost nostalgic, reminding Steve of the old days, before the plumbing and sewers really worked.

Twenty feet down was an underground bunker, with the elevator shaft tucked into a niche. Naturally, the bike was pointed the wrong way, so Steve said, “Hop off. I’ve got to carry the bike out of here. No room to turn.”

Bucky dismounted and moved out of the way. Steve followed, lifting the bike with only the slightest strain to his enhanced muscles. He backed out of the niche and set the bike gently to one side. Then he took off the saddlebags, tossed them over one shoulder, and brought Bucky across the room to the reinforced steel door.

“Uh, don’t be surprised, but the place is run by a computer,” Steve warned, looking at Bucky. “He talks through speakers all over the place. He’s... friendly.”

Bucky nodded. “I remember the operating parameters for the system called J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he said, spelling it out.

“Yeah, I just call him Jarvis. And, uh... maybe don’t mention the whole... intel thing that you have on us? Not until I can explain?”

“How can you explain me?” Bucky asked softly.

Steve put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, liking the way that Bucky leaned into the touch instead of pulling away. “The truth. You’re my best friend. I won’t let anyone change that.”

Bucky’s smile was still just barely there, not his old cocky grin, but it was enough for now.

Steve dropped his hand and turned to the door. There was no handle or lock. Instead, he knocked, calling, “Jarvis? It’s Steve Rogers.”

From all around them came a soft, cultured voice: “Good evening, Captain Rogers. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Please, come in.” The door slid soundlessly open, revealing a marble-floored elevator with warm gold light from art deco sconces. The walls were panelled halfway up, then covered with mirrors.

Bucky flinched but didn’t otherwise react. Relieved, Steve said, “Thanks, Jarvis. My friend, Bucky, and I need somewhere to stay for a while, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, Captain,” Jarvis answered.

Steve touched Bucky’s arm to get him moving, but Bucky was staring at the elevator. Quietly, Steve asked, “You okay?” Bucky turned to look at him, eyes wide with fear. Steve got closer and rubbed at Bucky’s arm, saying, “What is it?”

Darting another glance at the elevator, Bucky said, “It’s... small. No exits.”

Bucky — the Bucky Steve knew — had never been claustrophobic, but that might explain why Bucky had opened the door to the little hotel bathroom. What the _hell_ had they done to him to make such a strong man so fearful?

Steve had to take a couple of deep breaths to quash the rage that threatened to burn through him. “Okay, Buck. We’ll go back up top and walk around front. Jarvis, there are stairs, right?”

Evenly, the computer said, “If I may make a suggestion, Captain, there is an emergency hatch at the top of the elevator. Perhaps opening that would suffice?”

Steve started to ask, but Bucky was already going into the elevator. He kept one hand on the doors and looked up. Steve followed, saying, “Jarvis, keep the doors open, okay?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I see it,” Bucky said quietly as he set down the bag with Steve’s shield. “I’ll need a boost.”

Steve nodded, crouching a bit and lacing his hands together. Bucky set his metal hand on Steve’s shoulder, put one foot in Steve’s hands, and pushed up, trusting Steve to hold his weight. Bucky was solid muscle, but Steve had no difficulty supporting him as he triggered the hidden catch in the ceiling and pushed the panel open. Then he hopped back, landing lightly, and gave Steve a faint smile.

Deciding to treat this as perfectly normal, Steve smiled back at him and said, “Okay, Jarvis. We’re good to go.”

The elevator doors slid closed. Bucky bent down and picked up Steve’s shield. Steve remembered he was still carrying Bucky’s knives. Maybe they should have switched back, but Steve was actually okay with it.

The elevator started moving so smoothly that Steve could barely feel it. Steve glanced up to try and spot Jarvis’ cameras, but they were hidden. “Is Tony around?”

“I’m afraid he’s been in his lab for several days, Captain. I’ve notified him of your visit, but there’s been no acknowledgement. Is this a priority visit?”

Though Jarvis’ voice was calm, Steve picked up on the wording. Tony had a habit of working himself into unconsciousness, ignoring even Jarvis’ attempts to intervene. Steve’s priority was Bucky, though, so he regretfully said, “No, Jarvis. Sorry. But Natasha should be here some time soon.”

“I’ll have Miss Romanoff’s rooms prepared,” Jarvis acknowledged. “Shall I have dinner delivered, or would you prefer to use the kitchen?”

“Uh, I’ll cook something, if that’s okay,” Steve said, glancing at Bucky’s reflection. Bucky was tense but hiding it pretty well.

“Very good, Captain. If you or your guest require anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask,” Jarvis said as the elevator stopped. “Your rooms are at the end of the hall.”

The doors slid open, revealing a hallway as ostentatious as the elevator. Marble floors, incomprehensible modern art paintings, and so on. The far end of the hallway was a full-length window showing Manhattan’s skyline glowing against sunset-streaked clouds. Near the window, a broad staircase curved up and out of sight behind a glass-walled waterfall.

Steve had stayed here a couple of times, but not since the full Avengers Tower remodel. This hallway was new, uncomfortably overdone, but so _very_ Tony Stark.

“Did I warn you there’s nothing subtle about Tony?” Steve asked, leading Bucky out of the elevator.

This time, Bucky’s half-smile seemed more sardonic than anything else. “I knew that.”

Steve laughed and walked down the hall, shoulder bumping companionably into Bucky’s, until they came to the last two doors before the staircase. The one on the left had a full-color Captain America shield on a glowing panel; the one on the right had a similar panel lit up with _‘Bucky’_ in gold lettering.

Separate rooms, across the hall from one another. Bad idea.

“Uh, Jarvis? Can we —” Steve cut off, blushing furiously now, as he realized what Tony would probably think. But given the choice between Tony’s teasing and Bucky going all Winter Soldier on some innocent surprise, like the TV, Steve would take embarrassment any day. “Can we have adjoining rooms, maybe?”

“Certainly, Captain.” The lit-up panels beside both doors went dark. “If you wouldn’t mind going up the stairs, there’s a suite that might be to your liking.”

Steve didn’t look back at Bucky. He just said, “Thanks, Jarvis,” and jogged up the stairs, taking them two at a time, with Bucky at his heels.

The stairs led out into a living room that could double as a ballroom, with sofas, squashy leather armchairs, and a pool table all scattered about. On the far side was a dining table that could seat twelve, with a modern art sculpture of light and crystal hanging from the ceiling in place of a normal chandelier. The kitchen was enormous and curved, with a granite breakfast bar and two of everything: sinks, ovens, and refrigerators.

“To the right, Captain,” Jarvis prompted from the overhead speakers.

The hallway to the right curved behind the living room and kitchen, with doors only on one side. The panel beside the first door was lit with both the shield image and _Bucky_.

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Steve said, pushing open the door.

He immediately saw why Jarvis hadn’t suggested this suite first. For a computer, Jarvis was surprisingly insightful, and he knew that Steve wasn’t comfortable with overdone luxury — which the suite embodied. It had glass doors leading out to a balcony, a leather living room set facing a television that could double as a movie screen, and a full bar tucked in the corner. Open doors showed two bedrooms done in monochrome black and white, with beds big enough for three.

Bucky shrugged out of the straps holding the shield to his back, then held out the bag. Steve took it automatically, then put it down so he could tug up his jacket and unclip the knife from his belt.

“So, shower first, then I’ll make dinner?” he asked as he handed over the knife.

Silently, Bucky tucked the knife into the back of his belt.

After an awkward moment, Steve said, “If you have any trouble working the shower, just ask Jarvis for help.” Then, before he could be tempted to offer more personal help, he gave Bucky a little push towards one of the rooms. That got Bucky moving, and Steve picked up the shield and retreated to the other bedroom, thinking that maybe the suite was a mistake after all.

 

~~~

 

After six hours, even the most comfortable motorcycle made a bath look like a really good idea — especially the sort of bath that had water jets — but there was no time. Steve took a fast, hot shower instead, dressed quickly, and hurried back to the suite’s living room, carrying his last clean T-shirt.

“Bucky?” he called from the open door to the other bedroom. “I’ve got a clean shirt for you.”

Bucky walked into sight, and Steve’s breath caught at the sight of Bucky wearing his borrowed tight, low-slung jeans and no shirt. Steve had to turn away and pretend to look out the window at what he was sure was a beautiful view of nighttime Manhattan, though all he could see was Bucky’s reflection in the glass.

Bucky took the shirt, and Steve listened to the rustle of fabric, only turning back when he judged it to be safe. Not that there was anything _safe_ about Bucky, with his wet hair disheveled and Steve’s T-shirt stretched tight over his body. And after being with Bucky for a whole day, Steve was even okay with looking at Bucky’s metal arm, wondering what it would feel like under his fingers. Would Bucky even feel a light touch, or was the arm only meant for fighting?

Steve shook off the thought and turned away, saying, “Laundry later. For now, I’m hungry. Skipping lunch was a bad idea, but I wanted to get us here. We’re safe now.” And that thought made him add, “You don’t have to carry your knives.”

Alarm flickered in Bucky’s eyes. He glanced away and slowly reached behind his back. Steve heard a faint _click_ of metal as Bucky unclipped the knife from the back of his belt. When Bucky offered Steve the knife, his hand shook very slightly.

Steve put his hand over Bucky’s, though he didn’t take the knife. “Would you feel better if you had it?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “It’s...” He jerked his hand out from under Steve’s, and the knife fell to the floor. Bucky twisted and stalked away, fists clenching. With abrupt movements, he stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out another knife, which he threw aside hard enough that it cracked the wall.

Steve stepped over the other fallen knife and walked towards Bucky. “It’s okay, pal,” he said soothingly. “I know.”

 _“No!”_ Bucky turned on him, a feral glint of darkness in his eyes. “You don’t understand!”

“I _do_ ,” Steve said, and as Bucky backed away, Steve kept walking, until Bucky’s back was against the wall. “Maybe I don’t know what they did to you, but I know the end result. It’s like there are two of you — the Winter Soldier and Bucky.”

Eyes closed, Bucky let his head fall back against the wall. “I want...”

“Yeah. But you won’t. And even if you do, it’s okay. I heal pretty fast.”

“You’re not safe.” Bucky took another breath and shot a quick glance at Steve before he looked down, hair falling over his face. “You can’t heal a cut throat. A knife to the heart. The back of your neck —”

Ignoring the chill that swept through him, Steve said, “Maybe not, but I won’t let you try. I promise.” He put his hands on Bucky’s arms, feeling metal and flesh under his fingers. “Come on. You’ll feel better after dinner.”

Bucky’s whole body shuddered. Both arms were tight; his metal arm practically hummed with the tension of his clenched fist. But he let Steve pull him away from the wall, across the room, and he didn’t even look as they walked past the knives. Steve decided that counted as progress.

 

~~~

 

Steve was no great cook, but he’d lived as a bachelor all his life. Modern food was still unfamiliar, and food didn’t always taste the way he expected, but he’d mastered a few recipes. The fridge here was stocked — overstocked, even — and he was tempted to show off, but he decided to leave that for another time. Salad and pasta would do for tonight.

As he chopped and boiled and cheated by opening a jar of pasta sauce instead of trying to make it from scratch, he told Bucky more stories of growing up — of the fights that Steve would start and Bucky would finish, of the World Exposition, of the radio dramas they’d listen to late at night, every last detail that he could remember. Once dinner was ready, he asked Jarvis for some music from the forties, hoping to help Bucky remember the past. Jarvis obliged, and they sat down to the music of big bands and jazz.

Bucky ate with the same single-minded focus he’d applied to the pizza last night and their breakfast this morning, and Steve fell silent, surreptitiously watching Bucky. He really was worried that he’d snap and try to attack Steve. Maybe they could bleed out that aggression a little at a time in the sparring ring. Tony had said something about reinforcing the gym, after an incident with Thor and a weight machine.

Just as Steve was reaching for the pasta bowl, thinking he could use a third helping after skipping lunch, Bucky’s head turned sharply, and he put his fork down on the table. Steve looked up to see Bucky rise, lifting his chair to set it silently aside.

No, not Bucky, Steve realized as he heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. This was the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky, we’re _safe,_ ” he said, also getting to his feet. They’d been sitting at one corner of the table, so Bucky was in arm’s reach. There were no weapons except for the dishes, silverware, and furniture. So, no guns, which was a small comfort, given the Winter Soldier’s deadly accuracy.

“Jarvis, what the _hell_ is that?” came Tony’s voice from down the hall.

“Glen Miller’s _Kalamazoo_ , sir,” Jarvis answered calmly.

“Put a sock in it,” Tony ordered.

The music went silent as Tony stepped out of the hallway on the far side of the room. He looked at Steve and started to grin, only to blink in confusion at Bucky.

Before Tony could say another word, Bucky lunged at him, silent and deadly — and Steve, ready for the least little twitch, threw himself at Bucky, tackling him to the polished hardwood floor. Bucky twisted like a snake, swinging his metal fist at the side of Steve’s head. Steve ducked and let the punch graze his skull as he tried to pin Bucky’s shoulders, shouting, “Bucky! Stop!”

Bucky stared up at him without any recognition, struggling against Steve’s hold. Steve had better leverage, but Bucky was strong, maybe even stronger than Steve. So why wasn’t Bucky back on his feet, tearing Tony limb-from-limb?

Because Tony wasn’t a priority threat like Steve was, he realized. And maybe Bucky couldn’t fight the impulse to kill _another_ threat, but something in him made him hold back, just enough, against Steve.

Taking a damned big chance, Steve stopped fighting. Too fast for even him to follow, he landed flat on his back, and the breath rushed from his lungs and Bucky came down on top of him like a ton of bricks. Bucky landed one punch, cracking into Steve’s mouth. Steve grunted in pain as he felt his lip split against his teeth, but he made no move to defend himself.

Bucky’s second punch twitched to the side at the last instant. His metal fist hit the floor so close to Steve’s ear that strands of blond hair caught between the articulated plates around his fingers.

“Easy, Bucky,” Steve said, barely sparing a thought for Tony. He ignored the taste of blood and looked up into Bucky’s eyes, trying to project all the reassurance that he could. “It’s okay, pal. Remember me?”

Turning his face away, Bucky dragged in a shaky breath. He slid off Steve and coiled in on himself, crouching defensively, as if ready to run if provoked.

Steve sat up, then moved to kneel nearby, surreptitiously wiping the blood from his face. The cut would stop bleeding in just a couple of minutes. He reached out, but Bucky flinched as soon as Steve’s hand came close, like he was afraid Steve would hurt him.

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve said, still speaking calmly. He left his hand where he’d stopped, a couple of inches away from Bucky’s arm. “I won’t touch you. You do it.”

Bucky lifted his head just enough to look through his hair and meet Steve’s eyes.

Slowly, he lifted his right hand and touched his fingertips to Steve’s forearm.

“See? It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Bucky’s fingers slid around Steve’s wrist, tightening into an inescapable hold. With another shaky breath, Bucky said, “I hurt you.”

“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse in the boxing ring.” Steve’s smile was sort of one-sided, and he lifted his free hand to wipe away more blood. “You ready to meet Tony, or do you want to take a breather?”

Bucky’s hand clenched. “Stay,” he said, eyes going wide.

“Yeah. I’m right here. Not going anywhere,” Steve promised. To drive the point home, he sat down on the floor as if getting comfortable.

For a couple of minutes, the only sound was of Bucky’s breathing as he slowly got himself back under control. Steve had no idea where Tony was or what he was doing. Hopefully he knew better than to call for help from S.H.I.E.L.D., but then Tony had never really been a team player until the last possible second.

It was Jarvis who broke the silence, speaking very softly: “Captain Rogers?”

Bucky’s only response was a little twitch. Steve shifted a little closer to him and said, “Yeah, Jarvis?”

Somehow, the computer managed to sound a little bit embarrassed as he said, “My apologies, Captain, but Mr. Stark would like to know if you and your ‘date’ will be seeking privacy any time soon, so he can get to the kitchen.”

Steve groaned, closing his eyes. It was already starting — and Tony was making poor Jarvis do his dirty work. “Yeah, um. Bucky, maybe you can wait for me —”

Bucky’s hand clenched, grinding Steve’s wrist bones together.

“Or not,” Steve said, covering Bucky’s hand with his own. “Jarvis, tell Tony I’ll do the dishes later?”

“Please don’t concern yourself with it, Captain,” Jarvis said reassuringly. “Would you like me to resume the music playback in your suite? The door is soundproof.”

“Yeah. That’d be great, Jarvis. Thanks.” He patted Bucky’s hand and said, “Come on, pal. You can meet Tony tomorrow or something.”

Bucky allowed Steve to help him up and lead him across the living room. Only when they were in the suite, with the hallway door closed, music surrounding them, did Bucky relax. He kept hold of Steve’s wrist and leaned against the wall by the door, saying, “Tony Stark is still a target.”

“I figured.” Steve grinned, careful not to split his lip again, and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t feel bad. The first time I met him, I almost flattened him.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, and he let out a choked sound that Steve almost didn’t recognize, until he saw the smile.

Bucky was laughing.

Steve laughed, too, and slung his free arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Maybe next time, I’ll let you get a shot in, before I pull you off him. You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you? Just like old times.”

In response, Bucky laughed even harder.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve found a washer and dryer in a closet, though he had to get Jarvis’ help with actually figuring out what buttons to press. Trusting Jarvis’ reassurance that he wouldn’t end up with pink socks and underwear, he dumped everything into one load, except for the T-shirt and boxers he’d end up wearing to sleep, and the clothes Bucky was wearing. Tomorrow, Steve would figure out if it was safe to go shopping or if they’d have to order clothes on the internet — a terribly unreliable process, Steve had learned.

For now, he went to the living room, though he didn’t bother with the television. Bucky was definitely not ready for that. Instead, they both sat down on the couch nearest the window, where they could look out at the city lights.

“So, Bucky,” Steve said after he got comfortable. “You said Tony’s not a high priority target?”

Bucky shot Steve a wary look. “Without the arc reactor and his suits, yes. If he rebuilt his suits, HYDRA —” He cut himself off, frowning.

“Go on,” Steve prompted. “What about HYDRA?”

Bucky stared towards the window. “HYDRA would reassess his threat potential, and my — my orders would change...” He trailed off and looked at Steve again.

“Those orders — how would you get them?” Steve asked, wondering if Bucky’s arm wasn’t the only metal in him. If he had a chip in his head — a neural something-or-other — then Bucky might not have a choice about obeying.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He tensed, pressing back into the soft couch as if trying to pull away from something only he could see. Steve took a chance and moved his left hand to rest on the couch between them, and Bucky’s fingers went right for his arm, clutching tightly.

“Conditioning,” Bucky said quietly. “Forget the old orders. Only remember the new ones.”

Deep inside, Steve cringed at the thought. He knew HYDRA had tampered with Bucky’s memories, but if they were doing that _every time_ the mission changed... Back in the old days, orders could change from one day to the next. One _hour_ to the next. No wonder why Bucky’s memories were so scrambled.

“You know, Bucky... Something just occurred to me.” Steve turned to the side to better face Bucky. “Even with them messing with your memories, you still remembered me.”

“I don’t —”

“Yeah. You do,” Steve interrupted. “You remembered _enough_ of me to stop fighting me, and I’m fuzzy on it, but I’m pretty sure you were the one who pulled me from the river so I didn’t drown. Right?”

Bucky gave a quick, wary nod.

“That’s pretty amazing, if you think about it. You hanging onto even _one_ memory, with everything they did to you. That says a lot about how strong you are, inside. Don’t you think?”

“I want it back. My memory.” Bucky turned until his legs bumped into Steve’s, and he rested his shoulder against the couch.

“Give it time. It’s been, what, a little over a day?” Steve smiled encouragingly. “I’ll help, but you’re the patient one. It’s me who’s stubborn and impulsive, in case you didn’t remember that part.”

Bucky’s smile came easier now, and it reached his eyes, bringing back a hint of the old, devil-may-care light. “It’s in your dossier.”

Steve groaned and kicked one bare foot at Bucky’s shin. “What else is in there?”

“I memorized the footage of your fight against the Chitauri. Analyzed your strengths and vulnerabilities. Your fighting style.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but it was in a thoughtful way, rather than fearful and tense. “My intel isn’t up to date, though. You’ve changed.”

Steve’s nod was casual, but his mind raced. Bucky was opening up now, speaking more than just one sentence at a time. He wasn’t the old Bucky, but he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, either.

“I’ve been doing a lot of training with Natasha. She’s big on improvisation. A lot of psy-ops. That’s, uh —”

“Psychological warfare. I know. My training was more thorough than Black Widow’s.”

“Then see? You _really_ remembered me and went easy, because Natasha’s beat me a couple of times with her mind games.”

Bucky stared at Steve, and for one brief second, Steve wondered if he’d somehow lost ground to the Winter Soldier. Then Bucky’s gaze dropped to Steve’s mouth, and the sight of his half-lidded blue eyes, shadowed by dark eyelashes, stopped Steve’s breath. Bucky’s hand shifted around Steve’s wrist, and the hold that had been tight, almost confining, suddenly turned feather-light. The brush of Bucky’s fingers over Steve’s forearm sent lightning shocks all the way up to the back of his neck.

It was hard to breathe. Impossible to move. Bucky leaned in and tipped his head, every subtle shift of his body mesmerizing. He brushed his mouth over Steve’s, soft as a gentle exhale, leaving behind sparks and heat that turned to raw fire as Steve’s brain caught up with what was going on.

“Buck—” was all he managed to get out before Bucky’s lips touched his again, only this time, the pressure was insistent, and Steve swore he felt Bucky’s tongue. He wanted to move, to pull Bucky closer or to climb on top of him, but he didn’t dare break this connection that Bucky had created without Steve’s help or interference.

There was nothing awkward or tentative about _this_ kiss, and Steve could only sit there, wishing he hadn’t thrown his jeans in the laundry, because his boxers hid absolutely nothing, and wondering how to convince Bucky to _never stop_.

But he did, all too soon, drawing back just enough to look into Steve’s eyes. His fingers still rested on Steve’s wrist; he had to know how hard Steve’s heart was beating.

Abruptly, Bucky let go and twisted, disappearing from the couch so quickly that Steve shivered with his absence. Turning, Steve made it to his knees to look over the back of the couch, and he called, “Bucky!” just as Bucky disappeared into the far bedroom and slammed the door.

Steve had just enough time to drop back down onto the couch, wondering what the hell had gone wrong, when he heard a crash and the sound of breaking glass. His mind went blank except for images of the huge plate glass windows shattering — of the drop beyond, a fall that would kill even the Winter Soldier. Panic spiked adrenaline into his veins, and he threw himself over the back of the couch and crossed the room in two steps.

He threw open the door, forgetting the danger long enough to almost get a knife in his eye. Only his training saved him; he jerked his head back, and the knife sliced a clean line along his scalp instead. Bucky followed a half-second behind the throw, thrusting a second blade up at Steve’s ribs. Steve swept his right arm down, followed with a left-handed jab that Bucky shook off, though it broke his momentum. Bucky’s eyes went wide. Light glinted as his metal fingers twitched, loosening their grip on the knife’s hilt.

Thanking God for those hours Steve and Natasha had spent playing games of speed, learning to disarm opponents in close quarters, Steve slapped his palm down on the flat of the blade. The knife went flying, and Steve turned his downward momentum into a forward tackle, slamming his shoulder into Bucky’s center of mass.

Bucky went butt-over-heels and landed hard on his back. Steve crashed down on top of him, ready to pin him again, but the fight had gone out of his eyes. Bucky’s breath hitched, turning his inhale into a gasp.

“Steve —”

“Yeah.” Steve braced up on one elbow, though he wouldn’t actually get up until he was sure it was safe. The blood from the scalp wound threatened to drip off his jaw, so he turned to rub his head against his shoulder, figuring the stain wouldn’t show on his dark blue T-shirt. “You okay, Bucky?”

“I didn’t — I tried not to hurt you,” Bucky whispered, his voice full of agony.

 _You kissed me,_ Steve thought, though he didn’t say it. He couldn’t — not while lying on top of Bucky in nothing more than his underwear and a bloody shirt. And he couldn’t connect the dots between the kiss, whatever Bucky had shattered in here, and Bucky’s attack.

So he grinned down at Bucky instead and shrugged. “You didn’t. I told you before, I’ve had worse happen in the sparring ring.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, but what came out was more a grimace than a smile. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’ll stop.”

“I keep forgetting.” Bucky’s eyes tracked from Steve’s face to the cut. “I’m too dangerous to be near you.”

“ _You’re_ dangerous?” Steve laughed and shook his head. “If you’ve got a dossier on me, you know what I’ve been doing the last couple of years. This is practically a vacation.”

Bucky stared at him, dark brows drawing together. Seconds ticked past, but before Steve could figure out what else to say, Bucky sighed. “You were always like this, weren’t you? I think I know that about you, but I don’t remember.”

Steve shifted on top of Bucky again — and he _really_ needed to move away, because the adrenaline rush of the fight was subsiding into something much more warm and intimate. “I’d start fights that maybe I couldn’t always handle, and you’d have to finish them for me. It’s what you did, Bucky.”

“You’re still bleeding.”

It wasn’t quite the acknowledgement Steve wanted, but he could take a hint. He rolled off Bucky and got to his feet, keeping his back turned until he pulled his T-shirt down at least a little bit. “You know how fast I — _we_ heal,” he said with a shrug.

“Head wounds bleed longer.” Bucky touched the back of Steve’s arm, tentative and uncertain. “I know first aid.”

It was an offer to help, just like the old days, and Steve would’ve said yes just because of that, but he also wanted to show that he trusted Bucky. No matter how often Bucky broke something or came at him with weapons or even snapped and reverted to the Winter Soldier, Steve knew, with absolute certainty, that _Bucky_ was in there, and Steve would always be there for him.

So he turned back, smiled, and said, “Okay.” Then he held up a hand and looked around at the ceiling. “Uh, Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” came the quiet answer from everywhere around them.

“There a first aid kit around here?”

“In the bar, Captain.”

“The bar?”

Jarvis’ voice took on a long-suffering edge. “With Mr. Stark, alcohol and injury seem to go together.”

Steve laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

 

~~~

 

They ended up on the floor in front of the bar only because Bucky — the Winter Soldier version, anyway — had a complete disregard for personal comfort and Steve didn’t want to bleed all over the couch. Steve sat there, leaning against the bar, pouring neat, careful splashes of bourbon into crystal tumblers, while Bucky crouched in the detritus of alcohol swabs and sterile wrappers, pressing a gauze pad to the side of Steve’s head.

“Would it... bug you to talk about what you do remember?” Steve asked as he passed Bucky a glass.

Bucky took it in his metal hand. He hadn’t broken any glasses during any of their meals together, but it was only now that Steve really noticed the fine control he had over his strength. The same hand that could crush steel could hold crystal without shattering it.

“It’s not complete.”

“That’s okay.” Steve sipped at the bourbon. It wouldn’t affect him — not unless he drank the whole bar, and maybe not even then — but he still liked the taste.

Bucky lifted his tumbler and sipped. Then he took another drink, eyes narrowed as if in concentration. “There was a guard,” he said slowly. “Or maybe a scientist’s assistant. He was young. New. He was — We were _somewhere_ , and he — A guard. I remember the uniform.”

Bucky’s words still came slowly, but a new sound crept into them — a harshness, a sharper _e_ sound. The Bucky that Steve knew couldn’t speak a word of Russian, but Steve could hear the traces of it now.

“He wasn’t afraid, this guard,” Bucky continued, staring into the distance as the memory took hold. “He wanted to know my secret. He brought vodka. We drank, and he talked. Asked questions.”

“Did you answer?”

Bucky nodded. “It helped me remember. I answered everything.” His eyes flicked to Steve, then away again. “When there were no more questions, I killed him.”

Steve couldn’t find it in himself to be horrified at how casually the words were delivered. They were both soldiers. They’d both killed before. And maybe Bucky hadn’t killed this guard on a conventional battlefield, but his whole life, up until now, had been one long war.

“They found the body. They made —” Bucky crouched even lower, hunching down into a ball. His hand fell away from Steve’s head, and the bloody gauze dropped to the floor. “I gave a full report.”

Steve put down his glass and turned, touching Bucky’s arm. He felt metal and quickly pulled his hand up to run his fingers through Bucky’s tangled hair instead. “You don’t have —”

“I wasn’t permitted to talk to anyone, after that. Only my handlers and the scientists. I had to wear the mask.”

“The — That wasn’t so nobody would recognize you?”

Bucky shook his head. He finished his drink and put the empty glass on the floor. “The missions changed. No more infiltration or intelligence gathering. Only killing. I didn’t need to talk.”

There was only so much that Steve could take. He twisted around, knocked over his glass, and pulled Bucky off-balance and into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into Bucky’s hair as seventy years of guilt finally broke through his walls to come pouring out. He squeezed his burning eyes closed, telling himself he couldn’t cry, that he had to be strong for Bucky. “I’m sorry I let you fall. I thought — If I’d known, if I’d _suspected_ , I would’ve come to find you.”

“I don’t remember,” Bucky said, words muffled by Steve’s shoulder.

“I know.” Steve sighed and eased his grip on Bucky. They both stood, and though Bucky was still tense, Steve thought — hoped — the danger had passed, at least for the night. “Come on. We should get some sleep. We’ll deal with Tony in the morning.”

 

~~~

 

“Captain —” was as far as Jarvis got, but it was enough warning. Steve snapped awake in time to see his door open. Bucky’s tall, broad silhouette filled the door for a moment. The door closed, and soft footsteps crossed the thick carpet.

Bucky’s metal arm glinted, and Steve flinched as something flew over his head. A knife embedded itself in the wall over the bed with a _thunk_ — and then a second hit, a handspan away.

The throws weren’t meant to kill. Steve knew Bucky wouldn’t have missed.

Without saying a word, Bucky crossed to the bed and pulled down the blankets. Cold air made Steve shiver. Bucky got into the bed and rolled over, putting his back to Steve. He’d stripped down to boxers, and his skin felt like ice.

Steve pulled the blanket over them both, then tentatively moved his hand to Bucky’s hip. Bucky shifted closer and put his hand over Steve’s wrist. Steve had a feeling that this wasn’t how normal people slept together, but there was nothing normal about him and Bucky. Besides, he was getting to like the feel of Bucky’s hand — flesh or metal — around his wrist.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked quietly.

“It —” Bucky started. His fingers tightened painfully, grinding bones together, but Steve let it happen. “Intimacy is a proven way to circumvent a target’s defenses. It’s a weapon.”

God, that was why Bucky didn’t hold hands when he needed comfort or reassurance. His grip on Steve’s arm or wrist was a _restraint_ — a way to take charge of the situation, a clumsy grab at anything he could control.

“Roll over this way,” Steve said, twisting his arm free of Bucky’s grasp. He rolled onto his right side and reached back, only then remembering Bucky’s left arm was the metal prosthesis, and Bucky avoided touching him with it. But it would have been too awkward to switch sides, so Steve caught hold of hard metal fingers and tugged, shifting back, and Bucky finally took the hint and rolled onto his right side, chest to Steve’s back. The metal arm was cool through Steve’s T-shirt, hard and unyielding, but not _too_ alien.

“This isn’t —”

“Safe, yeah, I know,” Steve interrupted, shivering at the feel of Bucky’s breath on his nape. “Nothing’s safe, pal. That’s why we stick together. Watch each other’s backs.”

Bucky shifted again and got his right arm under Steve’s pillow. “How many more times can I try to kill you before you... send me away?”

Steve huffed out a breath, not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry at the thought. “As many as you want,” he said with a shrug. He pressed back against Bucky, holding his arm more tightly. “Just try to come up with a better reason than HYDRA wanting me dead, okay?”

“Like what?”

This time, Steve did laugh. “I don’t know. Forgetting the sugar in your morning coffee, maybe?”

With his back turned, Steve couldn’t see Bucky smile, but he heard it in Bucky’s voice. “Deal.”

 

~~~

 

Steve woke up smothered, with Bucky’s metal arm tight around his body, one leg thrown over both of his, and Bucky’s other hand tight around Steve’s wrist. It took Steve a few long, lazy seconds to realize his body wasn’t screaming warnings at him — that his subconscious must have decided Bucky was safe enough not to object to the uncomfortable position. In a way, it was comforting to think there was someone on the planet less experienced at cuddling than Steve was.

“You’re awake.” Bucky’s voice was soft and sleep-rough.

“Yeah. Did you sleep?”

Bucky’s hair rustled against the pillow, and Steve thought he nodded.

“Want me to bring you breakfast here, so you don’t have to deal with Tony?”

Bucky took a deep breath and relaxed his hold on Steve. When he rolled away, Steve shivered at the sudden absence of his heat. “Just stay close enough to intervene. Keep reminding me of...”

“Yeah. I get it.” Steve twisted around to watch as Bucky got out the other side of the bed. “If I tell you not to forget your knives, are you going to stab me and wreck the sheets?”

Bucky looked back at him. “Why aren’t you afraid?”

Steve sat up and shrugged, turning the motion into a stretch. His shoulders and back felt tight after spending all night in one position. “Because you won’t kill me. Even if you attack, you’ll stop yourself.”

Bucky moved away from the bed and leaned back against the window. The glass had gone translucent, turning the morning sunlight to a soft glow. Steve allowed himself the luxury of staring at Bucky’s silhouette, strong and powerful and _alive_.

“That’s a stupid risk,” Bucky finally said.

Steve laughed. “That’s what I do, Buck. I take the stupid risks, and you save me, every time.” He scooted up the bed so he could pull one of the knives out of the headboard. The knife was slim and beautifully weighted, though it was meant more for stabbing than throwing. He threw it anyway, hard and fast, aimed right at Bucky’s chest, because he knew. He knew exactly how Bucky’s hand would snap out and catch the blade when it was still inches away from his skin.

And he knew that Bucky wouldn’t attack. Wouldn’t throw it back.

“Stupid risks,” Bucky accused again, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Steve levered the other knife out of the headboard and tossed it over more gently. Bucky caught it left-handed. Steve got up out of bed and asked, “What’d you break last night?”

“A glass... I think it was supposed to be a sculpture,” Bucky answered uncertainly.

Steve winced, hoping it wasn’t some expensive piece of modern art that Pepper had collected. He’d have to find a way to make it up to her. “Clean it up, okay? No reason for you to get hurt stepping on the pieces.”

Bucky frowned, head tilting to the side, and he stared at Steve as if trying to read his mind.

Steve patted Bucky’s shoulder as he walked by, heading for the living room. “I told you, I don’t want to see you hurt. Go clean up. I’ll get you some clothes out of the dryer. Then we’ll go have breakfast.”


	6. Chapter 6

When Bucky followed Steve out of the suite, he was carrying only one knife, which Steve counted as a major win — not that the Winter Soldier was any less terrifying with just one knife, or even none at all, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Morning, Jarvis,” Steve said as he let the suite door close. “Could you let Tony know we’re up?”

“Mr. Stark —”

“Right here,” Tony called, voice echoing through the spacious living room. “Is your date going to try to gank me again? Because we have a rule here, see? No fighting before coffee. Lots of coffee.”

Steve’s face burned, and he wondered if it was too late to turn around and go hide in the suite. Bucky kept walking, though, so Steve went with him, thinking that no amount of teasing was worth Tony’s life — though he might let Bucky get in one or two good swings if Tony didn’t stop.

Tony was standing in the kitchen behind the breakfast bar, either using it as a barrier or just standing there to be close to the coffee pot. Wary of the potential for disaster, Steve glanced at Bucky, who thankfully wasn’t showing any sign of murderous intentions.

“Tony, this is Bucky Barnes — my _best friend_ ,” Steve said, hoping to cut off anything about ‘boyfriend’ or ‘the Winter Soldier’ or ‘HYDRA’s top assassin’ before Tony could get any traction.

“Yeah, I gathered.” Tony eyed Bucky warily and gave him a quick nod that told Steve nothing. How much did he actually know about Bucky? The Howling Commandos? The Winter Soldier?

“Sorry for just showing up, but with everything that happened with S.H.I.E.L.D., we needed somewhere to lay low for a while.”

Tony waved the hand that wasn’t clutching a stainless steel travel mug. “Whatever you need. I’m working on some... other stuff. A project for Pepper,” he said evasively. “If you need something blown up, let me know — though I guess you’ve got that handled.” He glanced at Bucky again.

“It’ll take more than one bomb to take down HYDRA,” Bucky said flatly.

“Pessimist, huh?” Tony huffed out a laugh. “Mr. Optimism meets his kryptonite. You two were made for each other. Jarvis, brew up another pot so we can toast.”

“Sir, you’ve had quite enough already,” Jarvis answered.

“This is a special occasion. Besides, our lovebirds here are going to need it, if they’re taking down HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. and whoever else is involved in this clusterfuck.” Tony eyed Steve thoughtfully. “Do we _know_ who else is involved in this clusterfuck?”

“Because HYDRA infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t bad enough?” Steve countered. He walked Bucky to the breakfast bar and gave him a little push towards the high stools, figuring it’d be best to keep Bucky and Tony on opposite sides for now. Thankfully, Bucky took the hint and sat down.

“Point,” Tony conceded. “And hey, sorry about Fury. I know you two were close.”

Steve nearly told Tony the truth, but that wasn’t his secret to reveal. Plus, as much as he _wanted_ to trust Bucky, he definitely didn’t want to hit some glitch in Bucky’s mind-programming that could end up with HYDRA finding out the Winter Soldier’s assassination attempt had failed. So Steve just nodded and said, “Thanks,” as he walked around the breakfast bar to find a couple more coffee mugs.

“Right. So, JARVIS said Natasha’s coming by?”

“Yeah.” Steve kept his back turned, taking the milk out of the fridge before hunting for the sugar.

“You need anyone else?”

Steve glanced back at Tony and saw the lines of stress and fatigue around his eyes. There were hints of grey at his temples. “No. We’re in no sort of shape to go up against them now.” He let his eyes go to Bucky, who was staring at them both as if just waiting for one of them to try and kill him. “We have more important things to do.”

“I’d warn you about the shitstorm that’ll happen when Captain America comes out of the closet, but...” Tony shrugged and picked up the fresh pot of coffee. As he filled the two mugs Steve brought over, he said, “I guess without S.H.I.E.L.D. on your ass, you don’t have to care.”

Steve eyed Tony, wondering if he should correct Tony’s assumption. Why was everyone focused on one or the other? Straight or gay? Tony’s assumptions about Bucky — _also_ incorrect, at least right now — didn’t magically erase Peggy or what she meant to Steve.

In the end, he let it pass. He fixed up two cups of coffee, light and sweet for himself, sweet and black for Bucky. Tony wandered off to his lab, leaving Steve to ransack the fridge to make breakfast. Remembering how they’d both eaten yesterday, he ended up cooking omelets that were too big to properly fold, an entire package of bacon, and some sort of herbed artisanal bread that he had to crush to fit into the toaster.

“It’s going to happen again with Black Widow,” Bucky said once he’d finished off every scrap of food on his plate.

“Natasha can handle herself.” Steve glanced at Bucky with a faint smile. “If I didn’t think you two would find a way to kill each other anyway, I’d just take away your knives and let you go at it. Might make you feel better.”

“Is that why you fought?”

“Huh?”

Bucky looked back down at his plate. “You... always fought. I think I remember that. Any excuse.”

Steve grinned hopefully. “Like I said, you always had to save me. I’d start fights. You’d finish them.”

“You were my mission.”

Steve’s grin faded. “Bucky —”

“Even then,” Bucky interrupted, turning to look at him with such intensity that his breath caught. “You were my mission before _and_ now.”

“Back then, you didn’t want me dead.”

“But you were _mine_.”

Steve sat back on his stool, fighting to keep his expression calm. The way Bucky had said _mine_ made Steve feel like he was one step away from falling into a chasm too deep for him to see the bottom.

“Okay,” he said slowly, finally slotting ‘mine’ into a definition that sort of fit with being best friends.

Only when Bucky turned away could Steve breathe more easily. The old Bucky had been relaxed, laid back, quick to laugh and quick to leap to Steve’s defense. The war had changed him — of course it had — mostly by teaching him patience. Sergeant Barnes of the Howling Commandos had turned a natural talent for sharpshooting into an art form, but that was the only time he’d been this... intense.

“There was this time,” Steve said quietly, bridging the decades that didn’t really exist in his mind. For him, the war was just a couple of years back, so recent that he could smell the smoke and hear the artillery even now. “There was this time, we had to get into this enemy base. We were going to sabotage their artillery. Only they had sentries up on two hills, and no way we could get at them. So I took this bike we stole, and I rode it up to the gates to draw out the gate guards. You were in the hills, so far back I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there. You were watching me. And the second those gate guards came out, you took them down. Two shots, barely time to breathe between them. I didn’t even have to get off the bike.”

“You took stupid risks,” Bucky said just as quietly.

Steve turned and saw Bucky was looking at him, frowning just a little bit. “It was a risk, but was it really so stupid, with you watching my back?”

Bucky slid his right hand out, and Steve moved his left hand, offering Bucky his wrist. Already, the feel of strong fingers around equally strong bones had become familiar to Steve. Maybe to both of them.

“Do you want to keep taking stupid risks?” Bucky asked.

Steve grinned. “Now that you’re back? Probably.”

Bucky’s thumb shifted, sliding under Steve’s wrist, lighting sparks under his skin. “Then I’ll need a new rifle.”

It felt like a victory. Steve laughed and damned near leaned in to kiss Bucky, but that wasn’t how they were. Not before and not now, though maybe, someday...

“Tell you what,” he said, looking into Bucky’s eyes. “If you think you can talk to Tony _without_ killing him, we’ll go see what he’s got in his armory. Okay?”

Bucky’s fingers twitched. “You’ll be there?”

“Always, pal.”

Bucky exhaled. Nodded. “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t let go.

 

~~~

 

“Do I need to suit up for this?” Tony’s voice said over the intercom.

Steve shot Bucky a questioning look. Hadn’t Bucky said something about Tony destroying all his suits? When Bucky didn’t respond, Steve turned back to the speaker in the wall and said, “No. It’s fine, Tony. Just... no surprises. No explosions.”

The door slid open, soundless and smooth. Bucky’s fingers twitched against Steve’s wrist.

“You’ve been talking to Pepper again,” Tony accused. “She’s spreading rumors.”

“I know you,” Steve countered. He stepped in front of Bucky, just in case something went wrong, and he made sure not to make it seem like he wanted to break free of Bucky’s hold.

Tony’s lab took up half of this floor and apparently half the floor above. The section by the windows was left open, with a staircase winding its way up to a mezzanine level. The view out those two-story windows was glorious; it would be even more spectacular from the balcony outside.

Under the mezzanine, most of the floor was dedicated to workbenches and computers. Tony was perched on a high, backless stool on wheels. He put a foot down to stop his smooth roll across the polished concrete floor.

“Either of you want a drink?”

Steve frowned. “It’s a little early.”

“If it’s too early for drinking, it’s too early for killing each other.”

Steve let out a frustrated huff. “Are we going to start this?” he asked sharply, taking a step forward.

Tony leaned back, hands raised. “Easy, Cap. You’re the one whose boyfriend makes Romanoff look like Hello Kitty.”

Steve only knew what the hell Tony was talking about because of a bad incident at an elementary school where he’d been invited as a guest speaker. “Sergeant Barnes —”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I got the files. The whole _planet_ got the files.” Tony slid his chair a foot to the side and looked directly at Bucky. “Including the ones about what the Red Room did to him.”

At the name, Bucky’s hand clenched painfully tight on Steve’s wrist. Steve shot him a look and saw he’d gone absolutely still, his face a pale, lifeless mask.

“It’s okay, Bucky,” Steve said, pressing close against Bucky’s side.

“Maybe more than okay,” Tony said, watching them with those sharp, dark eyes of his — eyes that missed nothing. “Give me enough time, and I might be able to reverse-engineer the process.”

“What?”

“No promises, but maybe we could at least arrange it so you’re not walking around with a robot assassin —”

_“Stark!”_

“I didn’t create him!”

Steve gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more than to shut Tony up in the most direct way possible, suit or no suit.

“I’m trying to be helpful here,” Tony said, crossing his arms. He hooked one foot over the railing around the base of the stool. “Besides, it might not be possible. It’s not like they were all that careful with him. What you’ve got there might be the best it gets.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Steve insisted, taking a half-step in front of Bucky. “He’s already remembering.”

“Yeah, from what I guess, some of it’ll come back on its own.” Tony kicked his other leg, banging his heel into the bottom of the stool. “I called Bruce for a neuro consult. You want me to take a look at your Space Marine’s arm, fine —”

“What’d you call him?”

“Space —” Tony sighed. “Forget it. I’m the engineer. You want someone to go poking around his brain, that’s Bruce. I’m strictly the hardware guy. Speaking of, how’s the arm working? No problems?”

Bucky didn’t respond until Steve nodded reassuringly. Then, Bucky said, “No issues.”

“Well, if you want me to give it a scan, just in case something does break and needs a quick fix, let me know.”

Steve frowned. “I thought you had records.”

“Yeah, but do you _trust_ their records?”

Bucky took a deep breath. He gave Steve a worried look, and Steve knew what he was asking.

Remembering a nuclear missile that had been seconds from destroying fifteen million people during the Battle of New York, Steve nodded. Tony had earned his trust.

“You can scan,” Bucky said. His voice was calm, but his hand was so tight that Steve’s fingers were cold and tingling.

Steve ignored the way Tony’s eyes lit up. And as Tony started calling for Jarvis to get the diagnostic programs ready and yelled at Dum-E, the robot in the corner, Steve stepped in front of Bucky, facing him, and leaned in close.

“I’ll be right here with you,” he said very softly, lips almost touching Bucky’s ear. “You want to leave, you just say so. Okay?”

Bucky’s shuddering exhale sank into Steve’s shirt. His hair tickled against Steve’s jaw. “Will it hurt?” he asked in a voice that was heartbreakingly expressionless, almost as if he were expecting Steve to say yes.

Steve wrapped his free hand around the back of Bucky’s neck. “Bucky. Look at me.”

It took effort that Steve could see. Bucky’s whole body was so tense, Steve could almost hear his vertebrae creak as he forced his head up just enough to meet Steve’s eyes.

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him,” Steve said, hoping like hell that Bucky heard the sincerity in his voice.

“I heard that!” Tony protested from across the lab.

Never looking away from Bucky, Steve said, “I meant you to.”

 

~~~

 

Tony never came within five feet of Bucky. He barely even looked at where Bucky and Steve stood, except to glance over with new instructions: “Lift.” “Bend your elbow, ninety degrees.” “Palm up.” “Palm down.” “Make a fist.” “Spread your fingers.”

Instead, it was light that touched Bucky, a spiderweb of blue lines that shimmered through the air. Slowly, Bucky eased his grip on Steve’s wrist, and his breathing calmed. His weight was warm and heavy against Steve’s left side. If Steve were to move even an inch, Bucky would stumble.

Finally, the blue lights flickered and vanished. “Scan complete, sir,” Jarvis said.

Steve didn’t think. He tugged his wrist free to put an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him close. Bucky slouched down and fitted himself comfortably against Steve, half-turned towards him.

Tony’s attention was fixed on a brilliant blue glow that cast his face into eerie shadow. Frowning, he reached inside that glow, then spread his hands. The glow separated into individual lines forming a model of Bucky’s arm. With quick twitches of his fingers, Tony rotated the image and started pulling off the armor plates to reveal the interior mechanisms.

Bucky’s hand clenched in Steve’s shirt. “How...”

“Holographic 3-D modeling,” Tony said absently. He gave the image a fierce scowl and pulled out a cluster of wires that all came together in the middle. “So, there’s problem one.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“Your Cylon’s batteries are poisoning him.”

“Cylon?” Bucky asked.

Tony huffed. “You two are going to sit down and marathon sci-fi for the next year, assuming you don’t kill me and get kicked out of the tower.” He spun around on his stool and flung the cluster of blue light at them.

Bucky shoved Steve back, shielding Steve with his own body, left arm raised defensively. Steve caught his shoulders, saying, “It’s okay, Bucky.”

Tony let out a low whistle. “Nice reflexes. And that’s all organic, Cap. Except for the neural interface to his brain and spine, only the arm and shoulder are artificial.”

Gently, Steve pressed Bucky’s arm down. Bucky leaned back against Steve’s chest, refusing to move aside. Looking over Bucky’s shoulder, Steve asked, “What are we looking at?”

“Power source. And a crappy one at that,” Tony scoffed.

“Can you —” Steve cut off an instant too late, realizing he should probably talk to Bucky _before_ asking about repairs and upgrades.

Tony caught the gist anyway. “Yeah. Get the hell out of my lab,” he said, making a ‘come here’ motion with one finger. The light-web flew obligingly back to where Tony was sitting.

Steve tugged Bucky closer, only then noticing that he’d dropped his hands to rest on Bucky’s hips. It was warm and intimate, and Bucky wasn’t pulling away.

“Out!” Tony ordered. “Go watch movies! JARVIS, queue up movies for them. Movies that don’t suck. Star Wars.”

Eternally tolerant, Jarvis just said, “Yes, sir. Episode —”

“If you mention anything that’s _not_ the original trilogy, I’ll take a magnet to your server,” Tony threatened. “Get out, lovebirds. Go get some culture.”

 

~~~

 

“I don’t understand how that was culture,” Bucky said two hours later as the ending credits began to scroll up the screen.

“It was...” Steve faltered and finally shrugged. “Okay?”

Bucky frowned at Steve. “Their weapons were impractical.”

“Well, yeah —”

“The ones that wore armor couldn’t move freely, and the ones that didn’t were” — Bucky shook his head — “even worse.”

Steve chuckled. “True.”

“And the Stormtroopers... None of them could hit a target at close range. Why were they allowed to live?”

Steve’s gut clenched at Bucky’s matter-of-fact tone, as if he expected death to be the price for failure in combat. He wanted to say something about it — about how Bucky didn’t need to live like that anymore — but that didn’t exactly sound like a cheerful conversation.

Instead, he smiled and said, “Stupid movie, huh?”

Bucky returned the smile as if relieved. “Yeah,” he said, relaxing back into the overstuffed couch cushions. He shifted so his shoulder touched Steve’s. “Is it all like that now?”

“Movies? To be honest, I haven’t had much time for them. I usually watch the news before bed, but...” He shrugged, leaning companionably into Bucky. It also probably wasn’t the time for him to explain all the contradictory news reports or to get into a discussion of what ‘truth’ really was.

“But?” Bucky prompted.

Steve shook his head and thought quickly about how movies had been _before_. Then, remembering the cartoon reels, he said, “Hey, Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Got any good cartoons?”

“A substantial library of them, sir. Can you specify your preferences?”

Steve was tempted to pick something old, but he didn’t want Bucky to feel bad for not remembering. “Something recent. Something really good.”

Jarvis went quiet for a few seconds. Then the TV screen lit up with _Brave_ written in starry gold lettering.

That was a promising start.

 

~~~

 

“That was all done on computers?” Steve asked, more than a little awed. Tony’s holograms were one thing — and that sick bastard, Zola, in the computers under Camp Lehigh — but this... This was innocent and fun and entertaining.

“Indeed, sir,” Jarvis answered a bit smugly. “Shall I continue? We have quite a selection.”

“What do you say, Bucky?” Steve asked.

Bucky grinned, openly and easily. “More.”

And that started a marathon that lasted into the afternoon and evening, taking breaks only long enough to make sandwiches for lunch, ice cream and coffee in the afternoon, and two frozen pizzas for dinner. Maybe Steve should’ve been concerned with getting Bucky onto a healthy diet, but he suspected Bucky was in better health than most people who’d been born twenty years ago, much less almost a hundred. Besides, there was time enough to deal with a diet later, after Bucky was ready to make those decisions for himself. For now, he seemed content to follow Steve’s lead. It was a reversal of who they’d been as kids, but Steve had spent his childhood learning everything there was to know about Bucky. Girls came and went for Bucky — and for Steve, because after a while, Bucky refused anything but double dates — but in the end, they all left, and it was just the two of them again.

Maybe that was when it started. Steve felt Bucky’s warm, comfortable weight leaning against him as they watched an improbably beautiful movie about talking lions, and he wondered if there had been some part of Bucky that wouldn’t have minded going on a date _without_ the girls to get in the way.

Steve turned, maybe to ask, maybe just to look at Bucky’s face, but he turned at just the same moment that Bucky moved closer. His lips brushed Bucky’s hair, and his breath caught.

Carefully, Steve stayed very still, letting Bucky feel him breathe. And when Bucky didn’t pull away, Steve deliberately kissed him. Bucky’s hand moved to Steve’s leg, and Steve shifted to get his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and when Bucky lifted his head to meet Steve’s eyes, Steve didn’t even think to hesitate.

Twice before, they’d kissed, but never like this, with neither of them caught by surprise. This time, Bucky twisted on the sofa for a better angle, bringing their bodies closer, and Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, encouraging him even more. There was nothing tentative or awkward in the way Bucky brushed the tip of his tongue over Steve’s lips, nothing hesitant in the way Steve opened his mouth, nothing but the perfect kiss that Steve felt like he’d wanted for his entire life.

When the elevator doors quietly hissed open, Steve braced for Bucky to pull free, but he didn’t. His fingers tightened on Steve’s leg, and the kiss turned heated, insistent, stealing Steve’s concentration. Steve took one single heartbeat to marvel that Bucky — the Winter Soldier — was ignoring an intruder, a possible threat, in favor of kissing him, as if trusting Steve’s assurance that they were safe here at the Tower.

Only when the kiss ended naturally, leaving them both breathless, did Steve realize there were tears in his eyes. In a whisper almost too soft to hear, he promised, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

Bucky smiled and lifted his metal hand to touch Steve’s face with cool, hard fingertips. “I know,” he whispered. And then, without raising his voice, he said, _“Zdravstvuyte, Natalia.”_

_Natalia?_

Steve twisted, instinctively using his own body to shield Bucky, before he put it all together. Natalia. _Natasha_.

She stood in front of the elevator, a leather jacket slung over her shoulders, black sweater hanging down to her hips, looking calm as could be despite having caught Steve and Bucky making out on the couch.

“Steve.” She gave him a nod before looking past him to Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Steve let out a breath when she didn’t call Bucky by some Russian codename. Bucky’s hand pressed to Steve’s back, as if seeking reassurance, though his voice was steady when he answered, “It’s Bucky now.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m sure I don’t have to outline just how unexpected this is,” Natasha said as she walked towards the nearest armchair, though Steve knew convenience wasn’t why she’d chosen it. He could see the readiness in her body, despite how comfortably she sat down, a placid smile on her face.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “He’s remembering some of who he is,” he said, determined to keep the discussion professional and relevant. He was _not_ talking to her about his sex life.

Natasha’s gaze flicked over to Bucky.

“Steve’s my primary target,” he said calmly. “As long as he’s here, you’re safe.”

One of her eyebrows twitched up. “Is that the only reason?”

“Don’t,” Steve cut in sharply. He’d fought at Nat’s side and bled for her, but if a fight broke out here and now, he knew whose side he’d chose, and it wasn’t hers.

She gave a slight, bare nod. “I take it the file helped?”

“The —” Steve shook his head, only then remembering the file stuffed at the bottom of his saddlebags. “Nat, it was in Russian.”

“What file?” Bucky asked sharply.

Steve turned, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It’s your old file, from...”

“The Red Room program,” Natasha finished for him.

Bucky tensed, hand tightening on Steve’s leg. “I want to see it.”

Steve’s first instinct was to say no. The desperate, hunted look in Bucky’s eyes felt like a step back. But Steve couldn’t refuse Bucky the chance to learn more about his past, no matter how grim. Instead, he warned, “I don’t know what it says. I couldn’t read it.”

“I can,” Bucky said, though he frowned. “I think.”

“Bucky —”

“I _need_ to see it,” he said quietly.

“Okay.” Steve glanced at Natasha, then back to Bucky, asking, “Now?”

Bucky nodded. “Please.”

“I need to settle in, anyway,” Natasha said, getting to her feet. “Jarvis, which way’s my room?”

“Down the hall, Ms. Romanoff,” the computer answered.

Steve shot Natasha a suspicious look. Why wasn’t her room in the downstairs guest wing, where Jarvis had originally put him and Bucky? Had she specifically asked to be close to Bucky in case something went wrong?

Not that he should be irritated. He’d asked her to meet them in New York specifically because he’d wanted backup in case Bucky had been more Winter Soldier than himself. And just because things seemed to be going well now didn’t mean they’d stay that way.

Still, he couldn’t quite hide a sigh of frustration as she disappeared down the hallway. “Bucky... Be careful around her, okay?”

“I know her.” Bucky glanced after Natasha, then turned to run his metal hand over Steve’s arm, down to his wrist. His finger curled around without crushing. “Stay close?”

Steve smiled. And then, because he could, he leaned in and kissed Bucky, quick and gentle, on the lips. “You got it.”

 

~~~

 

The file was thick — forty or fifty pages, some so old that the edges were cracked, many of them handwritten or filled out using an old typewriter with uneven letters and a fading ribbon. There were a few photographs, every one too grim for Steve to look at for more than a few seconds.

He sat on the couch, not even pretending to read the Kindle in his hand, instead staring at Bucky’s back. Bucky was at the desk by the window, slouched down in the chair, unmoving except when he lifted his right hand to turn a page. His left hand rested in his lap.

Steve wanted to get up and go to him, but what comfort could he offer? There was nothing he could ever do or say to make up for not looking for Bucky’s body — for not finding him before HYDRA or the Soviets did. And while he could wallow in guilt, he knew that would accomplish nothing. Better to put his energy into helping Bucky rather than hating himself.

He left the room twice — once to go to the bathroom, once to go back to the kitchen to get snacks. He came back with a package of chocolate chip cookies and bourbon, which he brought over to the desk. The crinkle of plastic made Bucky look up at Steve with sad eyes in an expressionless face.

Steve wanted to pull Bucky out of the chair and into his arms, as if holding him could turn the ugly reality of that folder to nothing more than a fading nightmare. Instead, he poured two glasses, then slid one over to Bucky before ripping open the package of cookies.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, and though it was English, not Russian, Steve heard a sharp edge to the vowel, rather than Bucky’s Brooklyn drawl.

Steve stacked a few cookies right next to the file, ignoring the crumbs he scattered over the desk. “Anything else I can do?” he asked, giving in to the urge to kiss the top of Bucky’s head.

Bucky shook his head, but he shifted in the chair, pressing his shoulder against Steve’s body. “Stay close?”

“Of course.” Steve didn’t want to hover, so he left only long enough to drag over an armchair. “You want the comfortable seat?”

Bucky looked away from the file long enough to say, “Maybe when I’m done, we can share it?”

The offered intimacy stole Steve’s breath, but the file on the desk made him hold his tongue. He just nodded and sat down on the edge of the chair, close enough that his knee touched Bucky’s leg.

Bucky shifted the bourbon and cookies to his left side. Between turning pages, he kept his warm right hand on Steve’s thigh. Steve sipped his drink and watched, fighting to stay silent and keep from asking what Bucky saw on the pages. That blank mask told Steve nothing about Bucky’s thoughts or feelings... which felt like a bad sign. Surely Bucky should have reacted in some way. Was he retreating into the safety of indifference? Or was he treating the file like a stranger’s dossier, absorbing the information without empathy?

Bucky didn’t finish reading until the bottle was empty, the cookies reduced to a few crumbs. He picked up the file and tapped it on the desk to straighten the pages. It looked mechanical, like something he’d done many times before.

“I remember,” he said quietly, looking at Steve. Instead of reaching for Steve, he flattened his right hand on the file. “This...”

Steve leaned over to touch Bucky’s arm. “Did it help?”

Bucky nodded. Covered Steve’s hand with his own cool metal one. “I understand what they did. Some of _how_ , too.”

“Enough to...”

Bucky met his eyes for a moment. “No. There’s evidence that...” He took a deep breath. “The changes aren’t all permanent. What Zola did will heal some of it.”

“So it _was_ Dr. Erskine’s serum,” Steve guessed.

“That’s what they thought, though they couldn’t replicate it. They tried, using my blood.” Bucky managed a faint smile and said, “Guess it’s just the two of us.”

“Yeah, S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to do some testing, but I refused. I suppose it was a good thing. We didn’t need to give HYDRA more super-soldiers, huh?”

Bucky’s smile took on a dangerous edge. “We can stop them. If... you want my help.”

Steve bit back his immediate _yes_ , trying to think of Bucky’s health first, rather than revenge. But God, the thought of getting back into the fight _with Bucky_ was tempting. “Don’t you think you deserve a little vacation first?”

Bucky turned to sit sideways in his chair so he could take Steve’s hands and look into his eyes. “I want revenge.”

“You know, most people would say that’s not healthy.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched. “I don’t care. I want them to pay.”

Steve closed his eyes, thinking about all the good people who’d suffered and bled and died. And he thought about Sam, who was even now wrapping up his work at the VA, getting ready to join Steve in his hunt for the Winter Soldier. About Natasha, who’d exposed her secrets to the world to strike at the corrupted heart of S.H.I.E.L.D. About Tony, who’d opened his home to them without a moment’s hesitation. And he thought about the others. Natasha would be able to find Clint. Dr. Banner was on his way. Someone would surely know how to get in touch with Thor.

 _The Avengers_ , he thought, looking at Bucky. His closest friend. His second-in-command. His oldest love.

“Okay, Buck. But we’re not doing this alone.”

Bucky frowned. “Natalia?”

Steve smiled. Instead of answering, he looked up at the ceiling and said, “Hey, Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain?” came the subdued answer from the speakers overhead.

“Can you get in touch with the rest of the Avengers?”

“Certainly, Captain. What shall I tell them?”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hands. “Tell them to come in and meet the newest member of the team. And then, we’ve got work to do.”


End file.
